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HISTORIES 


FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND 


FROM  THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST  TO  THE  EALL  OF  THE  STUARTS- 


HENRY   WILLIAM    HERBERT, 

Author  of  "  The  Captains  of  the  Old  Republics,"  "  Cavaliers  of  England,"  "  Marmaduke 
Wyvil"   "  Oliver  Cromwell"   "  The  Roman  Traitor"   SfC,  %c. 


NEW    YORK: 
RIKER,      THORNE      &      CO., 
129    FULTON    STREET. 

1854. 


%\.\ 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

RIKER,  THORNE   &  Co., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


J?.  CRAIGHEAD,  Printer  and  Stereolyper, 
53  Vesey  street,  New  York. 


/Vf 


Tfiumm  nift  ^irhtrtfi 


FROM   THE 


HISTORIES  OF  FRAKGE  AND  ENGLAND, 


PEES0NS  AND  PICTUEES 


FROM   THE 


HISTORIES  OF  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND. 


The  papers  of  which  this  volume  consists,  most  of  which  have 
appeared  at  different  periods  during  the  last  twelve  years,  in  various 
well  known  periodicals,  were  composed  with  the  idea  of  showing  the 
progress  and  advance  of  manners,  characters,  and  principles,  as  influ- 
enced by  the  progress  of  time  and  the  course  of  events,  during  the 
most  stirring  and  interesting  epochs  of  the  French  and  English  His- 
tories— from  the  Conquest  to  the  fall  of  the  Stuarts — from  the  intro- 
duction of  the  Feudal  System  to  the  establishment  of  a  constitu- 
tional Government. 

The  persons  introduced,  are  invariably  true  Historic  personages, 
delineated  with  a  pen  as  candid  and  as  free  from  prejudice  as  the 
author  knows  how  to  wield. 

The  Pictures  and  Scenes,  if  in  some  instances  fictitious,  are  drawn, 
it  is  believed,  with  perfect  fidelity  to  the  costume  of  the  day,  the 
spirit  of  the  times,  and  the  character  of  the  persons  brought  upon 
thS  stage  as  actors. 

The  whole,  it  is  hoped,  will  be  found  to  exhibit  a  series  of  lively 
and  dramatic  views  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  individuals,  some 
of  the  most  remarkable  instances  of  vice  and  virtue,  heroism  and 
fortitude,  and  some  of  the  most  picturesque  events,  which  occur  in 
the  history  of  six  eventful  centuries. 

In  ;any  case,  no  word  will  be  found  in  them  inconsistent  with 
either  the  letter  or  the  spirit  of  History —  none,  assuredly,  overstep- 
ping the  modesty  of  nature. 

HENRY  WILLIAM  HERBERT. 

The  Cedars,  March  24th,  1854. 


M30S467 


PERSONS  A^I>  PICTURES 


FROM    THE 


HISTORY  OF  FRANCE  AND  ENGLAND. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Edith  a,  the  Swan-Necked,  mlxvi.  9 

The  Countess  of  Montfort,  mcccxlvi.  29 

Philippa  of  Hainault,  mcccxlvii.  51 

The  Forest  of  Le  Mans,  mccclxxxvii.  71 

The  Maid  of  Orleans,  mccccxxix.  89 

The  Lady  Catherine  Douglass,  mccccxxxvii.  109 

Margaret  of  Anjou,  mcccclvii.  129 

Henry  VIII.  and  his  Wives,  mdxxi.  165 

Anne  Ascue*,  mdxlvi.  189 

Jane  Grey  and  Guilford  Dudley,  mdliv.  205 

Elizabeth  Tudor  and  Mary  Stuart,  hdlxviii.  223- 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  his  Wife,  mdcxviii.  241 

Cromwell  and  Charles  I.,  mdcxlviii.  259 

Charlotte  de  La  Tremouille,  mdcli.  275 

The  King's  Gratitude,  mdclxxxii.  289* 

The  Lady  Alice  Lisle,  mdclxxxv.  359s 

Ditton-in-the-Dale,  mdclxxxvii.  &73J 


fiittm; 


THE    SWAN -NECKED. 


1066. 


EDITHA,  THE  SWAN-NECKED. 


England  was  happy  yet  and  free  under  her  Saxon  kings. 
The  unhappy  natives  of  the  land,  the  Britons  of  old  time,  long 
ago  driven  back  into  their  impregnable  fastnesses  among  the 
Welsh  mountains,  and  the  craggy  and  pathless  wilds  of  Scot- 
land, still  rugged  and  hirsute  with  the  yet  uninvaded  masses  of 
the  great  Caledonian  forest,  had  subsided  into  quiet,  and  dis- 
turbed the  lowland  plains  of  fair  England  no  longer ;  and  so 
long  as  they  were  left  free  to  enjoy  their  rude  pleasures 
of  the  chase  and  of  internal  welfare,  undisturbed,  were  content  to 
be  debarred  from  the  rich  pastures  and  fertile  corn-fields  which 
had  once  owned  their  sway.  The  Danes  and  Norsemen,  sav- 
age Jarls  and  Vikings  of  the  North,  had  ceased  to  prey  on  the 
coasts  of  Northumberland  and  Yorkshire  ;  the  seven  kingdoms 
of  the  turbulent  and  tumultuous  Heptarchy,  ever  distracted  by 
domestic  strife,  had  subsided  into  one  realm,  ruled  under  laws, 
regular,  and  for  the  most  part  mild  and  equable,  by  a  single 
monarch,  occupied  by  one  homogeneous  and  kindred  race, 
wealthy  and  prosperous  according  to  the  idea  of  wealth  and 
prosperity  in  those  days,  at  peace  at  home  and  undisturbed 
from  without ;  if  not,  indeed,  very  highly  civilized,  at  least 
supplied  with  all  the  luxuries  and  comforts  which  the  age  knew 
or  demanded — a  happy,  free,  contented  people,  with  a  patri- 


12  PERSONS   AND    PICTURES. 

archal  aristocracy,  and  a  king  limited  in  his  prerogatives  by  the 
rights  of  his  people,  and  the  privileges  of  the  nobles  as  secured 
by  law. 

Such  was  England,  when  on  the  death  of  Hardicanute,  Ed- 
ward, afterward  called  the  Confessor,  ascended  the  throne  by 
the  powerful  aid  of  Earl  Godwin,  and  re-established  the  old 
Saxon  dynasty  on  a  base  which  seemed  to  promise  both  dura- 
bility and  peace. 

Had  this  Edward  been  in  any  sense  a  man,  it  is  probable 
that  the  crown  of  England  would  have  continued  in  the  Saxon 
line,  that  the  realm  of  England  would  have  remained  in  the 
hands  of  an  unmixed  race,  and  that  the  great  dominant  people 
— most  falsely  named  by  an  absurd  misnomer  Anglo-Saxon, 
since  with  the  slightest  possible  coloring  of  the  ancient  British 
blood,  they  are  the  offspring  purely  of  an  intermingling  of 
Saxon  and  Norman  blood  ;  owing  to  the  former  their  stubborn 
pertinacity  of  will,  to  the  latter  their  fiery  energy,  their  daring 
enterprise  and  quick  intellect — would  never  have  sprung  into 
existence  to  hold  the  balance  of  power,  if  not  the  absoluteness 
of  sway  on  each  side  of  the  ocean,  and  in  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe. 

But  he  was  not  a  man,  only  a  monk — a  miserable  lay  monk 
— a  husband  of  Earl  Godwin's  lovely  daughter,  yet  a  fanatical 
celibatarian — not  fit  to  be  a  king — not  fit  to  be  a  man — not  fit 
even  to  be  a  Saxon  monk,  when  monks  were  men  like  Becket. 

Jealous  of  his  Saxon  nobles,  he  had  recourse  to  Norman 
favorites,  and  England  was  already  half  a  Norman  province, 
and  William  of  Normandy  his  favorite,  until  the  counter  jea- 
lousy of  his  nobles  compelled  him  again  to  have  recourse  to 
Godwin,  and  his  gallant  sons,  Harold,  and  Gurth,  and  Leofwin, 
who  cleared  the  kingdom  of  the  intrusive  Norman  courtiers,  re- 
established the  Saxon  constitution,  and  nominally  as  the  minis- 


EDITH  A,    THE     SWAN-NECKED.  13 

ters  and  deputies  of  the  weak  king,  but  really  as  his  guar- 
dians and  governors,  ruled  England  happily,  well,  and  lawfully, 
in  his  stead. 

(jfodwin,  meantime,  had  departed  this  life,  full  of  years  and 
honors.  Edward,  the  nephew  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  whom 
he  had  invited  over  from  Hungary,  and  destined  to  be  his  suc- 
cessor, had  departed  also,  leaving  his  son,  Edgar  Atheling,  a 
minor,  heir  to  his  empty  expectations  and  his  noble  blood. 
And  now  what  little  intellect  there  was  and  spirit  in  the  monk- 
king  awoke,  and  he  perceived,  with  that  singular  clearness  of 
perception  which  sometimes  seems  to  visit  men,  dull  before  and 
obtuse  of  intellect,  when  they  are  dying,  that  his  people  now 
would  willingly  adopt  the  Norman  for  a  ruler,  or  submit  to  the 
sway  of  William  the  Bastard,  to  whom  he  had  in  past  days 
well  nigh  promised  the  succession  of  his  kingdom. 

Therefore,  of  late,  Harold,  the  son  of  Godwin,  the  flower  of 
the  whole  Saxon  race,  and,  in  fact,  their  ruler,  as  the  king's  lieu- 
tenant and  vicegerent,  came  to  be  looked  upon  by  the  whole 
Saxon  population  of  the  land,  as  their  next  Saxon  king,  in  the 
to-be  hereafter.  The  jealousies  which  had  disturbed  the  mind 
of  Edward  had  long  since  passed  away  ;  and  Harold,  whom  he 
once  had  looked  upon  almost  with  the  eyes  of  popular  aversion, 
he  now  regarded  almost  as  his  own  son.  Yet  still  the  Saxon 
hostages,  Ulfroth,  the  youngest  son  of  Godwin,  and  Harold's 
brother,  and  the  still  younger  son  of  Swega — who,  in  the  time 
of  his  mad  distrust  of  his  own  countrymen,  his  unnatural  pre- 
dilection for  the  Normans,  had  been  delivered  for  safe  keeping 
into  the  hands  of  William  of  Normandy — still  lingered  melan- 
choly exiles,  far  from  the  white  cliffs  of  their  native  land.  And 
now  for  the  first  time  since  their  departure,  did  the  aspect  of 
affairs  look  propitious  for  their  liberation  ;  and  Harold,  brother 
of  the  one  and  uncle  of  the  other,  full  of  proud  confidence  in 


14  PERSONS   AND    PICTURES. 

his  own  intellect  and  valor,  applied  to  Edward  for  permission 
that  he  might  cross  the  English  channel,  and,  personally  visiting 
the  JSTorman,  bring  back  the  hostages  in  honor  and  security  to 
the  dear  land  of  their  forefathers.  The  countenance  of  the 
Confessor  fell  at  the  request,  and  conscious,  probably,  in  his 
own  heart,  of  that  rash  promise  made  in  days  long  past,  and 
long  repeated  to  the  ambitious  William,  he  manifested  a  de- 
gree of  agitation  amounting  almost  to  alarm. 

"  Harold,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause  of  deliberation, 
"  Harold,  my  son,  since  you  have  made  me  this  request,  and 
that  your  noble  heart  seems  set  on  its  accomplishment,  it  shall 
not  be  my  part  to  do  constraint  or  violence  to  your  affection- 
ate and  patriotic  wishes.  Go,  then,  if  such  be  your  resolve, 
but  go  without  my  leave,  and  contrary  to  my  advice.  It  is  not 
that  I  would  not  have  your  brother  and  your  kinsman  home, 
but  that  I  do  distrust  the  means  of  their  deliverance  ;  and 
sure  I  am,  that  should  you  go  in  person,  some  terrible  disaster 
shall  befall  ourselves  and  this  our  country.  Well  do  I  know 
Duke  William  ;  well  do  I  know  his  spirit,  brave,  crafty,  daring, 
deep,  ambitious,  and  designing.  You,  too,  he  hates  especially ; 
nor  will  he  grant  you  anything  save  at  a  price  that  shall  draw 
down  an  overwhelming  ruin  on  you  who  shall  pay  it,  and  on 
the  throne  of  which  you  are  the  glory  and  the  stay.  If  we 
would  have  these  hostages  delivered  at  a  less  ransom  than  the 
downfall  of  our  Saxon  dynasty,  the  slavery  of  merry  England, 
another  messenger  than  thou  must  seek  the  wily  Norman ;  be 
it,  however,  as  thou  wilt,  my  friend,  my  kinsman,  and  my  son." 

Oh  !  sage  advice,  and  admirable  counsel !  advice  how  fatally 
neglected  !  counsel  how  sadly  frustrated  !  Gallant  and  brave 
and  young,  fraught  with  a  noble  sense  of  his  own  powers,  a 
full  reliance  on  his  own  honorable  purposes,  untaught  as  yet  in 
that  hardest  lesson  of  the  world's  hardest  school,  distrust  of 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  15 

others,  suspicion  of  all  men,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Harold 
thought  lightly  of  the  wisdom  of  the  old  in  the  self-sufficient 
confidence  of  youth. 

Stranger  it  is,  and  sadder,  that  he  thought  lightly  of  the 
apprehensions,  laughed  at  the  doubts,  and  resisted  the  tears 
of  one  whom  he  had  sworn  to  love  dearer  and  better  and  more 
truly  than  any  other  living  thing  on  earth,  or  in  Heaven — 
whom,  as  yet,  he  did  love  as  perfectly  as  any  mortal  man  may 
love  who  is  ambitious — for  what  is  ambition,  but  the  most 
refined  and  sublimated  of  all  selfishness?  Editha,  the  swan- 
necked,  the  fairest,  brightest,  purest  of  the  Saxon  maids  of  Eng- 
land,— Editha,  playmate  of  his  guileless  and  happy  boyhood- 
betrothed  of  his  promising  and  buoyant  youth — mistress — alas  ! 
alas ! — though  under  promise  still  of  honorable  wedlock — of 
his  aspiring  and  ambitious  manhood. 

For  she  too  had  loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well ;  she  too  had 
fallen  not  an  ignoble  nor  unreluctant  victim  to  man's  cupidity, 
ambition,  selfishness,  and  treason — and  sad  penance  did  she  too, 
almost  lifelong,  for  that  one  fatal  error,  and  by  most  cruel  suf- 
fering win  its  absolution. 

"  Be  sure,"  she  said,  severely  weeping  with  her  fond  white 
arms  about  his  muscular  neck,  and  her  luxuriant  light  brown 
tresses  floating  around  them  both,  clasped  in  that  lingering, 
last  embrace,  like  a  veil  of  orient  sunlight ;  "  be  sure,  Harold, 
that  if  you  do  go  on  this  fatal  journey — fatal  at  once  to  you, 
and  me,  and  England — we  never  shall  meet  more  on  earth, 
until  we  meet  ne'er  again  to  sever  in  the  dark  grave.  Never- 
theless, go  you  will,  and  go  you  must ;  therefore  no  tears,  no 
prayers  of  mine  shall  thwart  the  purpose  which  they  may  not 
alter,  nor  shake  the  spirit  which  they  may  not  turn  from  its 
set  will.  The  weird  that  is  spaed  to  every  man  when  he  is 
born,  he  must  dree  it  to  the  end.     And  my  weird  is  to  die  for 


16  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

you,  as  it  is  yours  to  die — in  vain !  in  vain ! — for  England. 
But  it  is  not  our  weird  ever  to  be,  or  here  or  elsewhere,  man 
•and  wife.  Go  your  way,  therefore,  go  your  way,  and  God's 
blessings  go  with  you,  and  be  about  you ;  but  you  and  I  have 
met  this  time,  to  meet  no  more  for  ever  !" 

They  parted  ;  and  on  the  morrow  Harold  set  forth  upon  his 
journey,  as  if  it  were  in  pursuit  of  pleasure,  surrounded  by  a 
blythe  train  of  gay  companions,  gallantly  mounted,  gorgeously 
attired,  with  falcon  upon  fist  and  greyhound  at  heel — gaily 
and  merrily  he  set  forth  on  that  serene  autumnal  morning,  for 
the  coast  of  Sussex.  And  on  the  morrow  Edith  a  set  forth 
upon  her  journey,  as  if  it  were  to  the  grave,  surrounded  by 
weeping  attendants,  clad  in  the  darkest  weeds,  with  veiled 
faces,  and  crucifixes  borne  before  them — sadly  and  forebodingly 
she  set  forth  on  that  serene  autumnal  morning,  for  the  seques- 
tered cloisters  of  the  nunnery  of  Croyland. 

Nor  had  Harold  tarried  long  in  the  princely  court  at  Avran- 
ches,  ere  all  the  sad  prognostications,  alike  of  the  aged  monarch 
and  the  youthful  lady,  were  made  good ;  for  having  been  in- 
duced first  to  promise  in  an  unguarded  hour  to  aid  William  in 
obtaining  the  possession  of  the  English  crown,  that  wily  prince 
soon  enveiglec*  him  into  swearing  to  the  due  performance  of 
that  rash  and  unholy  promise,  on  relics  the  most  sacred  that 
could  be  collected,  which  were  secretly  concealed  beneath  the 
altar  cloth,  and  displayed  only  when  the  unhallowed  oath  was 
plighted.  The  pledges  on  both  sides  were  determined.  Alice, 
the  Norman's  daughter,  should  be  the  Saxon's  promised  bride  ; 
Ulfroth,  the  Saxon's  brother,  should  remain  the  Norman's  hos- 
tage until  the  crown  of  Edward  should  bind  the  brows  of 
William. 

So  Harold  set  sail  immediately  for  England,  leaving  the 
brother — for  whose  liberty  he  came  a  suitor — ten  times  more 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  17 

forfeit  than  he  had  been  before,  and  to  find  the  woman  whom 
he  had  so  disloyally  forsworn,  the  bride  of  heaven,  sequestered 
in  the  nunnery  of  Croyland. 

On  his  first  interview  with  Edward,  he  related  all  that  had 
occurred — even  his  own  involuntary  oath !  and  the  old  sove- 
reign trembled  and  grew  pale,  but  manifested  nothing  of  sur- 
prise or  anger. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  replied,  in  calm  but  hollow  tones.  "  I  knew 
it,  and  I  did  forewarn  you,  how  that  your  visit  to  the  Norman 
should  bring  misery  on  you  and  ruin  on  your  country  !  As  I 
forewarned  you,  so  has  it  come  to  pass.  So  shall  it  come  to 
pass  hereafter,  till  all  hath  been  fulfilled.  God  only  grant  that 
I  live  not  to  see  it." 

Nor  did  he  live  to  see  it.  But  he  did  live  to  see  Harold, 
once  forsworn  to  Editha,  forsworn  again  to  Alice.  For  being 
sent  to  suppress  a  rebellion  in  the  North,  raised  by  Morcar  and 
Edwin,  Earls  of  Northumberland  and  grandsons  of  the  great 
Duke  Leofric,  against  his  own  brother  Tostig,  he  openly 
took  sides  with  the  former,  espousing  their  sister  Adelgitha, 
and  pronouncing  against  Tostig,  who  had  fled  infuriate  to  his 
father-in-law,  the  Duke  of  Flanders,  soon  to  raise  war  against 
his  native  land  and  its  kindred  usurper. 

For  worn  out  with  anxiety  and  sorrow,  the  feeble  monk-king 
passed  away,  and  was  gathered  to  his  fathers,  leaving  an  im- 
becile heir  to  his  throne  of  right,  in  the  helpless  Edgar  Athel- 
ing,  and  two  fierce,  capable,  and  mutually  detested  rivals,  in 
Harold,  the  Saxon,  and  the  Norman  William. 

Little  time  had  Harold,  who  stepped  as  by  right,  and  of 
course,  into  the  vacant  seat  of  royalty,  to  attend  now  to  wife  or 
friend  ;  for  scarcely  was  he  seated  on  the  perilous  throne,  ere 
the.  same  gale  filled  the  sails  of  two  royal  armaments,  both 
hastening  to  his  own  shores  to  dispute  his  ill-won  greatness — 

2* 


18  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

one  from  the  cold  shores  of  Norway,  bearing  the  fierce  and 

envious  Tostig,  backed  by  Harold  Hardrada,  king  of  Norway, 

with  all  his  wild  sea-kings  and  terrible  Berserkers,  under  the  flag 

of  Norseland — the  other  from  the  sunny  coasts  of  Normandy 

and  the  fair  Cotentin,  filled  with  the  mailed  Norman  chivalry, 

the  men  who  never  charged  in  vain,  or  couched  lance  but  to 

conquer,  under  the  banner  consecrated  by  the  pope  against  the 

perjured  and  the  traitor,  led  by  the  mighty  bastard. 

Still  it  is  said  that,  false  to  Editha,  false  to  Alice,  he  was 

ft&fein  false  to  Adelgitha,  and  would   have  recalled   his  swan- 
is  O  ' 

necked  beauty  from  the  cold  couch  of .  vowed  virginity,  to  the 
genial  marriage  bed ;  from  the  grey  cloister  to  the  gorgeous 
court,  of  which  she  should  be  the  queen.  But  he  met  no  re- 
sponse, save  the  most  significant  of  all — silence. 

The  sinner  had  repented  and  become  a  saint.  The  weak 
girl  had  been  ripened  through  the  fire  of  anguish  into  the 
heroic  woman. 

How  Tostig  fared  with  his  ally,  Harold  Hardrada,  the  gigan- 
tic, the  bridge  of  Staneford  witnessed ;  and  the  raven  banner 
borne  down  the  bloody  streams  of  Derwent  to  the  exulting 
Ouse,  and  the  Saxon  cry  of  victory !  Hurrah  for  king- 
Harold  ! 

How  William  fared  with  his  Norman  chivalry,  the  downs  of 

Hastings  witnessed,  and  the  heights,  known  to    this  day,  of 

Battle,    and    the   consecrated   banner    high   in    airr   and   the 

Norman  cry  of  victory,  "  Dex  aide    les  gentils  gens  de  JVor- 

mandie" 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  the  morning  after  the  exterminating  fight  of  Hastings. 
The  banner  blessed  of  the  Roman  pontiff  streamed  on  the  taint- 
ed air,  from  the  same  hillock  whence  the  Dragon  standard  of 
the  Saxons  had  shone  unconquered  to  the  sun  of  yester  even  ! 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  19 

Hard  by  was  pitched  the  proud  pavilion  of  the  conqueror,  who, 
after  the  tremendous  strife  and  perilous  labors  of  the  preceding 
day,  reposed  himself  in  fearless  and  untroubled  confidence 
upon  the  field  of  his  renown ;  secure  in  the  possession  of  the 
land  which  he  was  destined  to  transmit  to  his  posterity,  for 
many  a  hundred  years,  by  the  red  title  of  the  sword.  To  the 
defeated  Saxons,  morning,  however,  brought  but  a  renewal  of 
those  miseries,  which,  having  yesterday  commenced  with  the 
first  victory  of  their  Norman  lords,  were  never  to  conclude  or 
even  to  relax,  until  the  complete  amalgamation  of  the  rival 
races  should  leave  no  Normans  to  torment,  no  Saxons  to  en- 
dure ;  all  being  merged  at  last  into  one  general  name  of  Eng- 
lish, and  by  their  union  giving  origin  to  the  most  powerful,  and 
brave,  and  intellectual  people  the  world  has  ever  looked  upon 
since  the  extinction  of  Rome's  freedom.  At  the  time  of  which  we 
are  now  speaking,  nothing  was  thought  of  by  the  victors  save  how 
to  rivet  more  securely  on  the  necks  of  the  unhappy  natives, 
their  yoke  of  iron — nothing  by  the  poor  subjugated  Saxons,  ^ 
but  how  to  escape  for  the  moment  the  unrelenting  massacre, 
which  was  urged,  far  and  wide,  by  the  remorseless  conquerors 
throughout  the  devastated  country.  With  the  defeat  of 
Harold's  host,  all  national  hope  of  freedom  was  at  once  lost  to 
England — though  to  a  man  the  English  population  were  brave 
and  loyal,  and  devoted  to  their  country's  rights.  The  want  of 
leaders — all  having  perished  side  by  side,  on  that  disastrous 
field — of  combination,  without  which  myriads  are  but  dust  in 
the  scale  against  the  force  of  one  united  handful — rendered 
them  quite  unworthy  of  any  serious  fears,  and  even  of  con- 
sideration to  the  bloodthirsty  barons  of  the  invading  army. 
Over  the  whole  expanse  of  level  country,  which  might  be  seen 
from  the  slight  elevation  whereon  was  pitched  the  camp  of 
William,  on  every  side  might  be  descried  small  parties  of  Nor- 


20  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

man  horse,  driving  in  with  their  bloody  lances  as  if  they  were 
mere  cattle,  the  unhappy  captives,  a  few  of  whom  they  now 
began  to  spare,  not  from  the  slightest  sentiment  of  mercy,  but 
literally  that  their  arms  were  weary  with  the  task  of  slaying, 
although  their  hearts  Were  yet  insatiate  of  blood.  It  must  be 
taken  now  into  consideration  by  those  who  listen  with  dismay 
and  wonder  to  the  accounts  of  pitiless  barbarity,  of  ruthless, 
indiscriminating  slaughter  on  the  part  of  men,  whom  they  have 
hitherto  been  taught  to  look  upon  as  brave,  indeed,  as  lions  in 
the  field,  but  not  partaking  of  the  lion's  nature  after  the  field 
was  won — not  only  that  the  seeds  of  enmity  had  long  been 
sown  between  those  rival  people,  but  that  the  deadly  crop  of 
hatred  had  grown  up,  watered  abundantly  by  tears  and  blood 
of  either ;  and  lastly,  that  the  fierce  fanaticism  of  religious  per- 
secution was  added  to  the  natural  rancor  of  a  war  waged  for 
the  ends  of  conquest  or  extermination.  The  Saxon  nation, 
from  the  king  downward,  to  the  meanest  serf  who  fought 
beneath  his  banner,  or  buckled  on  the  arms  of  liberty,  were  all 
involved  under  the  common  bar  of  the  pope's  interdict ! — they 
were  accursed  of  God,  and  handed  over  by  His  holy  church  to 
the  kind  mercies  of  the  secular  arm  !  and,  therefore,  though 
but  yesterday  they  were  a  powerful  and  united  nation,  to-day 
they  were  but  a  vile  horde  of  scattered  outlaws,  whom  any 
man  might  slay  wherever  he  should  find  them,  whether  in 
arms  or  otherwise,  amenable  for  blood  neither  to  any  mortal 
jurisqMctipn,  nor  even  to  the  ultimate  tribunal  to  which  all  must 
submit  hereafter,  unless  deprived  of  their  appeal,  like  these 
poor  fugitives,  by  excommunication  from  the  pale  of  Christi- 
anity. For  thirty  miles  around  the  Norman  camp,  pillars  of 
smoke  by  day,  continually  streaming  upward  to  the  polluted 
heaven,  and  the  red  glare  of  nightly  conflagration,  told  fatally 
the  doom  of  many  a  happy  home  I     Neither  the  castle  nor  the 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  21 

cottage  might  preserve  their  male  inhabitants  from  the  sword's 
edge,  their  females  from  more  barbarous  persecution  !  Neither 
the  sacred  hearth  of  hospitality,  nor  the  more  sacred  altars  of 
God's  churches,  might  protect  the  miserable  fugitives — neither 
the  mail-shirt  of  the  man-at-arms,  nor  the  monk's  frock  of 
serge,  availed  against  the  thrust  of  such  as  the  land,  wherein 
those  horrors  were  enacted,  has  never  witnessed  since,  through 
many  a  following  age. 

High  noon  approached,  and  in  the  conqueror's  tent  a  gor- 
geous feast  was  spread — the  red  wine  flowed  profusely,  and 
song  and  minstrelsy  arose  with  their  heart-soothing  tones,  to 
which  the  feeble  groans  of  dying  wretches  bore  a  dread  burden 
from  the  plain  whereon  they  still  lay  struggling  in  their  great 
agonies,  too  sorely  maimed  to  live,  too  strong  as  yet  to  die. 
But,  ever  and  anon,  their  wail  waxed  feebler  and  less  frequent ; 
for  many  a  plunderer  was  on  foot,  licensed  to  ply  his  odious 
calling  in  the  full  light  of  day,  reaping  his  first,  if  not  his  rich- 
est booty,  from  the  dead  bodies  of  their  slaughtered  foemen. 
Ill  fared  the  wretches  who  lay  there,  untended  by  the  hand  of 
love  or  mercy — "  scorched  by  the  death  thirst,  and  writhing 
in  vain" — but  worse  fared  they  who  showed  a  sign  of' life,  to 
the  relentless  robbers  of  the  dead — for  then  the  dagger,  falsely 
called  that  of  mercy,  was  the  dispenser  of  immediate  immor- 
tality. The  conqueror  sat  at  his  triumphant  board,  and  barons 
drank  his  health — u  First  English  monarch,  of  the  pure  blood 
of  monarchy."  "King  by  the  right  of  the  sword's  edge." 
"  Great,  glorious,  and  sublime !" — yet  was  not  his  heart  soften- 
ed, nor  was  his  bitter  hate  toward  the  unhappy  prince,  who 
had  so  often  ridden  by  hi*  side  in  war,  and  feasted  at  the  same 
board  with  him  in  peace,  relinquished  or  abated.  Even  while 
the  feast  was  at  the  highest,  while  every  heart  was  jocund  and 
sublime,  a  trembling  messenger  approached,  craving,  on  bended 


22  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

knee,  permission  to  address  the  conqueror  and  king — for  so  he 
was  already  schooled  by  brief,  but  hard  experience,  to  style 
the  devastator  of  his  country. 

"  Speak  out,  dog  Saxon,"  cried  the  ferocious  prince  ;  "  but 
since  thou  must  speak,  see  that  thy  speech  be  brief,  an  thou 
would'st  keep  thy  tongue  uncropped  thereafter  !" 

"  Great  Duke,  and  mighty,"  replied  the  trembling  envoy,  "  I 
bear  you  greeting  from  Elgitha,  erewhile  the  noble  wife  of 
Godwin,  the  queenly  mother  of  our  late  monarch — now,  as  she 
bade  me  style  her,  the  humblest  of  your  suppliants  and  slaves. 
Of  your  great  nobleness  and  mercy,  mighty  King,  she  sues  you 
that  you  will  grant  her  the  poor  leave  to  search  amid  the  heaps 
of  those  of  our  Saxon  dead,  that  her  three  sons  may  at  least 
lie  in  consecrated  earth.  So  may  God  send  you  peace  and 
glory  here,  and  everlasting  happiness  hereafter !" 

"  Hear  to  the  Saxon  slave  !"  William  exclaimed,  turning  as 
if  in  wonder  towards  his  nobles,  "  hear  to  the  Saxon  slave,  that 
dares  to  speak  of  consecrated  earth,  and  of  interment  for  the 
accursed  body  of  that  most  perjured,  excommunicated  liar! 
Hence !  tell  the  mother  of  the  dead  dog,  whom  you  have  dared 
to  style  your  King,  that  for  the  interdicted  and  accursed  dead, 
the  sands  of  the  sea-shore  are  but  too  good  a  sepulchre  !" 

"  She  bade  me  proffer,  humbly,  to  your  acceptance,  the  weight 
of  Harold's  body  in  pure  gold,"  faintly  gasped  forth  the  terrified 
and  cringing  messenger,  "  so  you  would  grant  her  that  permis- 
sion." 

"  Proffer  us  gold ! — what  gold  J  or  whose  ?  Know,  villain, 
all  the  gold  throughout  this  conquered  realm  is  ours.  Hence, 
dog  and  outcast,  hence !  nor  presume  e'er  again  to  come,  in- 
sulting us,  by  proffering,  as  a  boon  to  our  acceptance,  that  which 
we  own  already,  by  the  most  indefeasible  and  ancient  right  of 
conquest !     Said  I  not  well,  knights,  vavasours,  and  nobles  ?" 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  23 

"  Well !  well !  and  nobly,"  answered  they,  one  and  all. 
"  The  land  is  ours — and  all  therein  is — their  dwellings,  their 
demesnes,  their  wTealth,  whether  of  gold  or  silver,  or  of  cattle 
— yea  !  they  themselves  are  ours  !  themselves,  their  sons,  thejr 
daughters  and  their  wives — our  portion  and  inheritance,  to  be 
our  slaves  for  ever  !" 

"  Begone !  you  have  our  answer,"  exclaimed  the  Duke, 
spurning  him  with  his  foot,  "  and  hark  ye,  arbalastmen  and 
archers,  if  any  Saxon  more  approach  us  on  like  errand,  see  if 
his  coat  of  skin  be  proof  against  the  quarrel  of  the  shaft." 

And  once  again  the  feast  went  on,  and  louder  rang  the  rev- 
elry, and  faster  flew  the  wine-cup  round  the  tumultuous  board ! 
All  day  the  banquet  lasted,  even  till  the  dews  of  heaven  fell  on 
that  fatal  field,  watered  sufficiently,  already,  by  the  rich  gore  of 
many  a  noble  heart.  All  day  the  banquet  lasted,  and  far  was 
it  prolonged  into  the  watches  of  the  night,  when,  rising  with 
the  wine  cup  in  his  hand,  "Nobles  and  barons,"  cried  the  Duke, 
"friends,  comrades,  conquerors — bear  witness  to  my  vow! 
Here,  on  these  heights  of  Hastings,  and  more  especially  upon 
yon  mound  and  hillock,  where  God  gave  to  us  our  high  victory, 
and  where  our  last  foe  fell, — there  will  I  raise  an  Abbey  to  His 
eternal  praise  and  glory ;  richly  endowed  it  shall  be  from  the 
first  fruits  of  this  our  land.  Battle,  it  shall  be  called,  to  send 
the  memory  of  this,  the  great  and  singular  achievement  of  our 
race,  to  far  posterity, — and,  by  the  splendor  of  our  God,  wine 
shall  be  plentier  among  the  monks  of  Battle,  than  water  in  the 
noblest  and  the  richest  cloister  else,  search  the  world  over  !  This 
do  I  swear,  so  may  God  aid,  who  hath  thus  far  assisted  us  for 
our  renown,  and  will  not  now  deny  His  help,  when  it  be  asked 
for  his  own  glory  !" 

The  second  day  dawned  on  the  place  of  horror,  and  not  a 
Saxon  had  presumed,  since  the  intolerant  message  of  the  Duke, 


24  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

to  come  to  look  upon  his  dead !  But  now  the  ground  was 
needed,  whereon  to  lay  the  first  stone  of  the  abbey  William 
had  vowed  to  God.  The  ground  was  needed  ;  and,  moreover, 
the  foul  steam  from  the  human  shambles  was  pestilential  on 
the  winds  of  heaven — and  now,  by  trumpet  sound  and  procla- 
mation through  the  land,  the  Saxons  were  called  forth,  on  pain 
of  death,  to  come  and  seek  their  dead,  lest  the  health  of  the 
conquerors  should  suffer  from  the  pollution  they  themselves  had 
wrought.  Scarce  had  the  blast  sounded,  and  the  glad  tidings 
been  announced,  once  only,  ere  from  their  miserable  shelters 
— where  they  had  herded  with  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest, 
from  wood,  morass,  and  cavern,  happy  if  there  they  might  es- 
cape the  Norman  spear — forth  crept  the  relics  of  that  perse- 
cuted race.  Old  men  and  matrons,  with  hoary  heads,  and 
steps  that  tottered  no  less  from  the  effect  of  terror  than  of  age 
— maidens  and  youths,  and  infants,  too  happy  to  obtain  per- 
mission to  search  amid  those  festering  heaps,  dabbling  their 
hands  in  the  corrupt  and  pestilential  gore  which  filled  each 
nook  and  hollow  of  the  dinted  soil,  so  they  might  bear  away, 
and  water  with  their  tears,  and  yield  to  consecrated  ground, 
the  relics  of  those  brave  ones  once  loved  so  fondly,  and  now  so 
bitterly  lamented.  It  was  toward  the  afternoon  of  that  same 
day,  when  a  long  train  was  seen  approaching,  with  crucifix, 
and  cross,  and  censer  ;  the  monks  of  Waltham  Abbey,  coming 
to  offer  homage  for  themselves,  and  for  their  tenantry  and  vas- 
sals, to  him  whom  they  acknowledged  as  their  king — express- 
ing their  submission  to  the  high  will  of  the  Norman  pontiff, 
justified,  as  they  said  and  proved,  by  the  assertion  of  God's 
judgment  upon  the  hill  of  Hastings. 

Highly  delighted  by  this  absolute  submission,  the  first  he  had 
received  from  any  English  tongue,  the  conqueror  received  the 
monks  with  courtesy  and  favor,  granting  them  high  immuni- 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  25 

ties,  and  promising  them  free  protection  and  the  unquestioned 
tenure  of  their  broad  demesnes  for  ever.  Nay,  after  he  had 
answered  their  address,  he  detained  two  of  their  number,  men 
of  intelligence,  as  with  his  wonted  quickness  of  perception  he 
instantly  discovered,  from  whom  to  derive  information  as  to  the 
nature  of  his  new-acquired  country  and  newly-conquered  sub- 
jects. 

Osgad  and  Ailric,  the  deputed  messengers  from  the  respect- 
ed principal  of  their  community,  had  yet  a  farther  and  higher 
object  than  to  tender  their  submission  to  the  conqueror.  Their 
orders  were,  at  all  and  every  risk,  to  gain  permission  to  consign 
the  corpse  of  their  late  king  and  founder  to  the  earth,  previously 
denied  to  him.  But  they,  for  all  his  courtesy  to  them,  and 
kindness,  churchmen  although  they  were,  dared  not  so  much  as 
to  mention  the  forbidden  name  of  their  unhappy  king — nor 
was  there  any  hope  that  any  tomb  should  receive  the  mangled 
relics  of  the  last  Saxon  King  o&  England,  although  the  corpses 
of  his  brothers,  Leofwin  and  Gurth,  had  been  found  on  the 
hillock  whereon  the  last  Saxon  blow  was  stricken,  whereon  the 
last  Saxon  banner  floated — found,  recognised,  though  sorely 
mangled,  and  consigned  to  the  grave  with  rites  of  sepulchre  so 
freely  granted  as  might  have  proved  to  those  craven  priests,  that 
the  wrath  of  the  conqueror  was  at  end,  and  that  the  valiant 
though  fierce  Norman  was  not  one  to  wage  war,  after  the  first 
burst  of  wrath  had  blown  over,  on  the  gallant  dead. 

Tidings  at  length  reached  Editha — Editha,  the  swan-necked, 
who,  deserted  and  dishonored  when  he  she  loved  had  a  throne 
in  prospect,  had  not  ceased  from  her  true-hearted  adoration, 
but  in  her  joyless  home  still  shared  her  heart  in  silence  be- 
tween her  memories  and  her  God. 

Her  envoy  won  the  conqueror's  ear,  and  it  is  avouched  that 
a  tear  dimmed  his  unblenching  eye,  when  he  heard  her  sad  tale 


26  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

received  her  humble  prayer.  He  swore  a  great  oath  as  he 
started  from  his  regal  throne.  "By  the  splendor  of  God's 
eyes  !"  he  swore,  "  a  true  woman  !  worthy  to  be  the  mother  of 
men  !"  So  her  request  was  granted,  and  to  their  wonder  and 
delight,  Osgad  and  Ailric  heard  the  mandate  that  they  should 
seek  for,  and  entomb  the  poor  and  fallen  clay  that  so  late  boast- 
ed itself  king. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  third  day  succeeding  that  un- 
paralleled defeat,  those  old  men  toiled  among  the  naked  corpses, 
gory  and  grim,  maimed  and  disfigured,  festering  in  the  sun, 
weltering  in  the  night  dews,  infecting  the  wholesome  airs  of 
heaven  with  a  reek,  as  from  the  charnel-house — toiled,  if  they 
might  find  the  object  of  their  veneration.  But  vain  were  all 
their  toils — vain  all  their  searchings,  even  when  they  called  in 
the  aid  of  his  most  intimate  attendants,  ay !  of  the  mother  that 
bore  him.  Leofwin  and  Gurth  had  been  recognised  with  ease, 
but  not  one  eye,  even  of  those  who  had  most  dearly  loved  him, 
could  now  distinguish  the  mutilated  features  of  the  king. 

But  if  there  was  no  eye  at  Hastings,  there  was  a  heart  at 
Croyland  that  could  not  be  deceived,  even  by  the  corruption  and 
the  worm.  Forth  from  her  nunnery  in  Croyland,  whence  she 
had  never  thought  to  move  again,  save  to  her  long  last  home, 
Editha,  the  swan-necked,  came.  Nine  days  had  elapsed  ere  she 
should  reach  the  fatal  spot,  and  the  appalling  horrors  of  the 
search,  the  awful  extent  of  the  pollution,  denied  the  smallest 
hope  of  his  discovery.  Yet  she  still  expressed  her  full  and 
confident  conviction  that  she  could  recognise  that  loved  one, 
so  long  as  but  one  hair  remained  upon  that  head  she  had  once 
so  dearly  cherished. 

It  was  night  when  she  arrived  on  the  fatal  field,  and  by  the 
light  of  torches  once  more  they  set  out  on  their  awful  duty. 


EDITHA,    THE    SWAN-NECKED.  27 

"  Lead  me,"  she  said,  "  lead  me  to  the  spot  where  the  last 
blow  was  stricken,  where  the  last  warrior  fell." 

And  they  led  to  the  knoll  where  Leofwin  and  Gurth  had 
been  discovered.  It  was  a  hideous  pile  of  pestilential  carnage, 
horses  and  men,  Normans  and  Saxons,  piled  on  each  other, 
twenty  deep,  around  a  shattered  pole,  which  had  been  once  the 
staff  of  the  Saxon's  royal  banner. 

She  sprang  down  from  her  palfrey,  unassisted,  and  with  an 
instinct  that  nothing  could  deceive  went  straight  to  the  corpse 
of  Harold.  It  had  been  turned  already  to  and  fro,  many  times, 
by  those  who  sought  it.  His  mother  had  looked  on  it,  and 
pronounced  it  not  her  son's,  but  that  devoted  heart  knew  it  at 
once,  and  broke  !  Whom  rank  and  wealth  and  honors  had 
divided,  defeat,  ruin,  and  death  made  one  !  and  the  same  grave 
contained  the  cold  remains  of  the  swan-necked  Editha,  and  the 
last  scion  of  the  Saxon  kings  of  England. 

Was  not  she,  then,  frail  sinner  as  she  was,  one  not  the  least 
heroic  of  the  heroic  women  of  the  olden  days,  and  with  the 
truest  woman's  truest  heroism  ! 


€§t  Cntttite  rflfiflttW; 


OE, 


THE   RELIEF   OF  HENNEBON. 


1346. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  MONTFORT ; 

OK,  THE  BELIEF  OF  HEKNEBOK 

I  wish  now  to  return  to  the  Countess  of  Montfort,  who  possessed  the  courage  of  a  man, 
and  the  heart  of  a  lion.  Froissart— Chronicles,  vol.  i.  o.  72. 

The  age  of  knight-errantry,  as  we  read  of  it,  and  in  some 
degree  believe,  as  recited  in  the  Morte  d' Arthur,  and  the  other 
British  or  Breton  romances,  had  never  any  real  existence  more 
than  its  heroes,  Lancelot  du  Lac,  Tristran  le  Blanc,  or  Pelli- 
nant  or  Pellinore,  or  any  of  the  heroes  of  "  the  table  round ;" 
the  very  date  of  whose  alleged  existence,  centuries  before  chi- 
valdry  or  feudalism  was  heard  of,  {secludes  the  possibility  of 
their  identity. 

The  age  of  chivalry,  however,  had  a  real  being ;  it  was  in 
very  truth  "  the  body  of  a  time,  its  form  and  pressure ;"  and 
that  was  the  age  of  Edward  the  Third  and  the  Black  Prince  of 
England,  of  the  Captal  de  Buch  and  Sire  Eustache  de  Ribeau- 
mont,  of  Bertrand  du  Guesclin  and  Charles  of  Luxemburg,  the 
valiant  blind  king  of  Bohemia,  and  those  who  won  or  died  at 
Crecy  or  Poictiers. 

That  was  the  age  when  knights  shaped  their  conduct  to  the 
legends  which  they  read  in  the  old  romances,  which  were  to 
them  the  code  of  honor,  bravery,  and  virtue. 

That  was  the  age  when  "  Dicu,  son  honneur  et  sa  dame"  was 
the  war-cry  and  the  creed  of  every  noble  knight,  when  noblesse 


32  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

oblige  was  a  proverb  not — as  now — without  a  meaning.  And 
of  that  age  I  have  a  legend,  reproduced  from  the  old  chronicles 
of  old  Froissart,  so  redolent  of  the  truth,  the  vigor,  and  the 
fresh  raciness  of  those  old  days,  when  manhood  was  still  held 
in  more  esteem  than  money,  and  the  person  of  a  man  some- 
thing more  valuable  than  his  purse,  that  I  think  it  may  be  held 
worthy  to  arrest  attention,  even  in  these  days  of  sordid  defer- 
ence to  the  sovereign  dollar,  of  stolid  indifference  to  everything 
in  humanity  that  is  of  a  truth  good,  or  great,  or  noble. 

"  I  wish  now  to  return,"  says  Froissart,  in  a  fine  passage,  a 
portion  of  which  I  have  chosen  as  my  motto,  "»to  the  Count- 
ess of  Montfort,  who  possessed  the  courage  of  a  man,  and  the 
heart  of  a  lion." 

Previous  to  this,  the  veracious  chronicler  of  the  antique  wars 
of  France  and  England  has  related,  how  by  the  death  of  the 
Duke  of  Brittany,  who  left  no  issue,  the  ducal  coronet  of  that 
province,  which,  together  with  Normandy  and  Anjou,  had 
always  since  the  Norman  conquest  maintained  relations  with 
the  crown  of  England,  was  left  in  dispute  between  John  Count 
de  Montfort,  the  half-brother  of  the  late  duke,  who  had  mar- 
ried the  sister  of  Lewis  Earl  of  Flanders,  and  a  daughter  of  the 
late  duke's  brother-germ  an,  who  was  wedded  to  Charles,  younger 
son  of  Guy  Count  de  Blois,  by  the  sister  of  Philip  of  Valois, 
the  reigning  king  of  France. 

With  which  of  these  the  absolute  right  rested,  is  not  a  mat- 
ter of  much  moment ;  as  it  is  with  the  romance  of  feudalism, 
not  the  accuracy  of  heraldic  genealogies,  that  I  am  now  dealing. 
Nor,  were  it  important,  have  I  at  hand  the  means  of  deciding 
certainly ;  since  the  solution  of  the  question  depends  on  facts 
not  clearly  presented,  as  regarding  the  seniority  of  the  brothers, 
the  precise  degrees  of  consanguinity,  and  the  local  laws  of  the 
French  provinces. 


THE    COUNTESS    OF    MONTFORT.  33 

Both  parties  appear  to  have  relied  on  alleged  declarations, 
each  in  his  own  favor,  by  the  late  duke,  John  of  Brittany. 

The  Bretons  it  would  seem,  almost  to  a  man,  sided  with 
the  Count  de  Montfort  ;  and  this  would  in  these  days  go  very 
far  towards  settling  the  question. 

King  Philip  of  France  naturally  took  part  with  his  niece,  the 
wife  of  a  great  feudator}^  of  his  crown ;  Edward  the  Third  of 
England,  as  naturally,  favored  the  opposite  claimant ;  expecting 
doubtless  that  he  should  receive  the  count's  homage  as  his 
vassal  for  Brittany,  in  case  of  his  recovering  his  duchy  by  the 
aid  of  British  arms. 

The  Count  de  Montfort  was  summoned  before  the  king  and 
peers  of  France  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  having  already  done 
homage  to  the  English  king,  as  suzerain  of  a  French  province — 
a  charge,  by  the  way,  which  he  absolutely  denied — and  to 
prove  his  title  to  the  duchy  before  Parliament.  To  their  de- 
cision he  expressed  his  willingness  to  defer,  and  offered  to  abide 
by  their  judgment ;  but  the  same  night,  suspecting  ill  faith  on 
the  part  of  his  rival  and  the  French  king,  and  fearing  treach- 
ery, he  withdrew  secretly  into  his  own  duchy,  of  which  he 
had  already  gained  absolute  possession,  holding  all  its  strong 
places  with  the  free  consent  of  the  lords,  the  burgesses,  the 
clergy,  and  the  commonalty  of  the  chief  towns,  and  being 
everywhere  addressed  as  Duke  of  Brittany. 

After  the  departure  of  the  count  from  Paris,  the  Parliament, 
almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  decided  against  him — firstly  par 
contumace,  or  as  we  should  now  say,  by  default — secondly,  for 
treason,  as  having  done  homage  to  a  foreign  liege  lord — and 
thirdly,  because  the  Countess  of  Blois  was  the  daughter  of  the 
next  brother  of  the  late  duke,  while  the  Count  John  de  Mont- 
fort was  the  youngest  of  the  family. 

I  may  observe  here,  that  it  is  more  than  doubtful  whether  the 
3 


34  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

alleged  homage  to  Edward  was  at  this  time  rendered ;  that  the 
fact  was  positively  denied  by  Montfort  himself,  and  by  his  other 
historians  ;  and  furthermore,  that  the  descent  to  the  female  line 
is  very  questionable  in  any  French  province  or  principality,  the 
Salique  law,  adverse  to  the  succession  of  females,  prevailing  in 
that  country. 

Be  this,  however,  as  it  may,  the  princes  and  peers  of  France, 
considering  that  the  dispute  between  the  rival  claimants  had 
resolved  itself  into  a  question  between  the  rival  crowns  of 
France  and  England,  whjch  it  virtually  had,  espoused  to  a  man 
the  party  of  Charles  of  Blois. 

Thereupon,  the  Dukes  of  Normandy,  of  Alencon,  of  Bur- 
gundy, of  Bourbon,  the  Lord  Lewis  of  Spain,  the  Constable  of 
France,  the  Count  de  Blois,  and  the  Viscount  de  Rohan,  with 
all  the  princes  and  barons  present,  undertook  to  maintain  the 
rights  of  Charles  ;  entered  Brittany  with  powerful  forces ;  and, 
after  some  sharp  fighting,  shut  the  Count  of  Montfort  up  in 
Nantes,  where  he  was  shortly  afterwards  delivered  to  the  enemy, 
not  without  suspicion  of  treachery  on  the  part  of  Sir  Herve  de 
Leon,  his  late  chief  adviser,  whom  he  had  blamed  severely  for 
retreating  too  readily  into  the  city,  before  the  troops  of  Charles 
de  Blois. 

John  de  Montfort  hereupon  nearly  disappears  from  history  ; 
Froissart  supposing  that  he  died  a  prisoner  in  the  tower  of  the 
Louvre.  But  it  appears  that,  after  three  years'  confinement,  he 
made  good  his  escape  to  England,  and  then,  not  before,  did  ho- 
mage to  Edward  ;  who  aided  him  with  a  force  under  "William 
de  Bohun,  Earl  of  Northampton,  to  recover  his  duchy,  which 
his  sudden  death,  after  an  unsuccessful  attempt  on  Quimperle, 
finally  prevented.  This  is,  however,  in  anticipation  of  the  cur- 
rent of  history,  and  more  especially  of  those  events  which  it  is 
my  purpose  to  illustrate  in  this  sketch  ;    for,  from  the   very 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  MONTFORT.  35 

moment  of  his  capture,  the  affairs,  both  civil  and  military, 
of  the  duchy  were  administered  with  the  most  distinguished 
energy,  ability,  and  success  by  his  wife,  sister  of  Lewis  Count 
of  Flanders,  a  race  noble  and  brave  by  descent  and  nature, 
"the  Countess  of  Montfort,  who  possessed  the  courage  of  a 
man  and  the  heart  of  a  lion." 

"She  was  in  the  city  of  Rennes,"  says  her  historian,  "when 
she  heard  of  the  seizure  of  her  lord  ;  and,  notwithstanding  the 
great  grief  she  had  at  heart,  she  did  all  she  could  to  reanimate 
her  friends  and  soldiers.  Showing  them  a  young  child,  called 
John,  after  his  father,  she  said,  '  Oh,  gentlemen,  do  not  be  cast- 
down  for  what  we  have  suffered  by  the  loss  of  my  lord ;  he 
was  but  one  man.  Look  at  my  little  child  here  ;  if  it  please 
God,  he  shall  be  his  restorer,  and  shall  do  you  much  service.  I 
have  plenty  of  wealth,  which  I  will  distribute  among  you,  and 
will  seek  out  for  such  a  leader  as  may  give  you  a  proper  confi- 
dence.' When  the  Countess  had,  by  these  means,  encouraged 
her  friends  and  soldiers  at  Rennes,  she  visited  all  the  other 
towns  and  fortresses,  taking  her  young  son  John  with  her.  She 
addressed  and  encouraged  them  in  the  same  manner  as  she  had 
done  at  Rennes.  She  strengthened  her  garrisons  both  with 
men  and  provisions,  paid  handsomely  for  everything,  and  gave 
largely  wherever  she  thought  it  would  have  a  good  effect.  She 
then  went  to  Hennebon,  near  the  sea,  where  she  and  her  son 
remained  all  that  winter,  frequently  visiting  her  garrisons,  whom 
she  encouraged  and  paid  liberally." 

Truly  a  noble  woman — a  true  wife,  a  true  mother,  a  true 
princess  of  her  principality — she  sought  no  woman's  rights,  but 
did  a  woman's  duty — her  duty  as  her  absent  husband's  repre- 
sentative— her  duty  as  her  orphaned  son's  protectress — her 
duty  as  her  unsovereigned  people's  sovereign  lady.     Nobility 


36  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

and  circumstance  obliged  lier ;  and  nobly  she  discharged  her 
obligation. 

Much  as  I  contemn  women  whom  a  morbid  craving  after 
notoriety  and  excitement  urges  to  grasp  the  attire,  the  arms, 
the  attributes  of  the  other  sex ;  in  the  same  degree  do  I  honor, 
in  the  same  degree  admire  and  laud,  the  true-hearted  woman, 
the  true  heroine,  who  not  forcing  or  assailing,  but  obeying  the 
claims  of  her  nature,  compels  her  temper  to  put  on  strength 
instead  of  softness,  steels  herself  to  do  what  she  shrinks  from 
doing,  not  because  she  arrogates  the  power  of  doing  it  better 
than  the  man  could  do  it,  but  because  she  has  no  man  to  whom 
she  might  confide  the  doing  of  it. 

The  hen  fighting  the  sparrow-hawk  careless  of  self  for  her 
defenceless  brood,  is  a  spectacle  beautiful  to  behold,  filling 
every  heart  with  genuine  sympathy,  because  her  act  itself  is 
genuine  ;  is  part  and  parcel  of  her  sex,  her  circumstances,  her 
maternity ;  in  a  word,  is  the  act  of  the  God  of  nature.  The 
hen  gaffed  and  cropped  and  fighting  mains  against  the  males  of 
her  own  family  in  the  beastly  and  bloody  cock-pit,  is  a  spectacle 
that  would  make  the  lowest  frequenter  of  such  vile  arenas  shud-' 
der  with  disgust,  would  wring  from  his  lips  an  honest  cry  of 
shame. 

Margaret  of  Anjou,  in  Hexham  forest  awing  the  bandit  into 
submission  by  the  undaunted  royalty  of  her  maternal  eye — 
the  Countess  of  Montfort,  reanimating  her  faint-hearted  garri- 
sons, even  by  donning  steel  harness  for  "  her  young  child  John" 
— Elizabeth  of  England,  a-horse  at  Tilbury,  for  her  Protestant- 
ism and  her  people — Maria  Theresa,  waving  her  sabre  from  the 
guarded  mount  to  the  four  quarters  of  heaven  in  the  main- 
tenance of  her  kingdom  and  her  cause — Marie  Antoinette  of 
France,  defying  her  accusers  at  the  misnamed  judgment  seat, 
fearless  of  her  butchers  at  the  guillotine — these  are  the  true 


THE    COUNTESS    OF    MONTFORT.  37 

types  of  nature,  the  true  types  of  their  sex,  the  true  heroines, 
mastering  the  weakness  of  their  sexual  nature,  through  the 
might  of  their  maternal  nature — these  are  the  hens  champion- 
ing their  broods  against  the  falcon. 

But  of  this  day  of  cant  and  fustian,  the  man-women,  not 
heroines,  called  by  no  duty  to  the  attire  or  the  attributes  of 
men,  but  panting  indelicately  for  the  notoriety,  the  fierce,  pas- 
sionate excitement  of  the  political,  nay  !  for  aught  that  appears, 
of  the  martial  arena — these  are  the  hens,  if  they  could  but  see 
themselves  as  they  see  effeminate,  unsexed  men,  gaffed  and 
cropped  and  fed  to  do  voluntary  battle  in  the  sinks  and 
slaughterhouses  of  humanity,  against  the  gamecocks  of  their 
species. 

The  Lady  Macbeths  of  a  falser  period,  who  fancy  that,  by 
proving  themselves  so  much  less  the  woman,  they  can  shine  out 
so  much  more  the  man. 

"  But  I  wish  now  to  return,"  with  my  old  friend  Froissart, 
"  to  the  Countess  de  Montfort,  who  possessed  the  courage  of  a 
man,  and  the  heart  of  a  lion,"  and  I  will  add — the  soul,  the 
instincts,  and  the  excellence  of  a  true  woman. 

During  the  winter  succeeding  the  seizure  of  her  lord,  and 
the  treason  of  Sir  Herve  de  Leon,  who  had  attached  himself  to 
the  Count  de  Blois,  she  remained  peacefully  occupied  in  Hen- 
nebon,  in  the  education  of  her  young  child  John  ;  and  how  she 
educated  him  was  seen  in  his  after  career,  as  a  knight  valorous 
and  gentle,  a  prince  beloved  and  popular. 

But  with  the  summer  there  came  strife  and  peril,  and  protec- 
tion became  paramount  to  everything  beside. 

During  the  winter,  while  the  Countess  de  Montfort  lay  tran- 
quil in  Hennebon,  the  Count  Charles  de  Blois  lay  as  tranquilly 
in  Nantes,  which — as  I  have  before  related — had  been  treason- 
ably surrendered  to  him  by  Sir  Herve  de  Leon  and  the  citizens 


38  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

of  the  place.  But  now  that  the  fair  weather  had  returned, 
that  the  swallows  were  disporting  themselves  in  the  summer 
air,  the  cuckoos  calling  by  the  river-sides,  now  that  armies 
could  hold  themselves  in  the  fields  with  plenty  of  all  tfeorts 
around  them,  he  summoned  to  him  all  those  great  princes  of 
the  royal  blood,  and  all  the  noble  barons  and  valiant  knights 
who  had  fought  with  him  in  the  last  campaign.  And,  mind- 
ful of  their  promises,  they  drew  all  their  forces  to  a  head,  and 
came  with  a  great  array  of  spears  of  France,  and  Genoese 
cross-bowmen,  and  Spanish  men-at-arms,  under  the  leading  of 
the  Lord  Lewis  d'Espagne,  to  re-conquer  for  him  all  that  re- 
mained unconquered  of  the  fair  land  of  Brittany. 

During  the  last  year  the  strong  Castle  of  Chateauceux  had 
been  won  by  them  by  sheer  dint  of  arms,  and  Nantes,  the  ca- 
pital of  the  province,  by  the  vileness  of  the  traitor  Herve  de 
Leon  ;  the  next  strongest  place  to  these  was  the  city  of  Rennes, 
which  had  been  put  into  complete  readiness  for  war  by  its  late 
lord,  and  further  fortified  by  the  countess,  who  had  intrusted  it 
to  Sir  William  de  Cadoudal,  a  brave  Breton  knight,  and  in  all 
probability  an  ancestor  of  the  no  less  valiant  George,  of  the 
same  patronymic,  the  great  Vendean  chief  and  victim  of  Na- 
poleon, co-murdered  with  the  princely  Due  d'Enghien. 

This  town  the  French  lords  surrounded  on  all  sides,  and  as- 
sailed it  with  fierce  and  continual  skirmishes  at  the  barricades, 
and  wrought  it  much  damage  by  the  persistency  of  their  on- 
slaughts ;  but  still  the  defenders  '  defended  themselves  so 
valiantly,  resolute  not  to  lose  their  liege-lady's  city,  that  the 
besiegers  lost  more  than  they  gained — for  many  lives  were  lost 
on  both  sides,  but  far  most  on  the  French  part ;  and  yet  more 
wounded — nor  could  they  amend  it  anything ;  nor  win  a 
tower,  nor  force  a  gate,  though  they  made  assaults  daily,  and 
plied  the  walls  from  mighty  engines,  with  great  store  of  artil- 
lery. 


THE    COUNTESS    OF    M0NTE0RT.  39 

Now,  when  the  Countess  of  Montfort  heard  how  the  French 
lords  had  returned  into  Brittany,  and  were  laying  waste  the 
country  and  besieging  her  strong  city,  she  sent  one  of  the  best 
of  all  her  knights,  Sir  Amauri  de  Clisson,  who  should  repair 
straightway  to  King  Edward,  in  England,  to  entreat  his  as- 
sistance, upon  condition  that  her  young  son  should  take  for 
his  wife  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  king,  and  give  her  the  title 
of  Duchess  of  Brittany. 

And  the  king,  well  pleased  to  strengthen  his  claim  on  that 
fair  province,  readily  assented,  and  ordered  Sir  Walter  Manny, 
one  of  the  prowest  and  most  skilled  in  war  of  all  his  knights, 
to  gather  together  so  many  men-at-arms  as  he  should  with  Sir 
Amauri's  advice  judge  proper ;  and  to  take  with  him  three  or 
four  thousand  of  the  best  archers  in  England,  and  to  take  ship 
immediately  to  the  succor  of  the  Countess  of  Montfort. 

And  Sir  Walter  embarked  with  Sir  Amauri  de  Clisson,  and 
the  two  brothers  Sir  Lewis  and  Sir  John  de  Land-Halle,  the 
Haze  of  Brabant,  Sir  Herbert  de  Fresnoi,  Sir  Alain  de  Sire- 
fonde,  and  many  others,  leaders  of  note ;  and  men-at-arms  not 
a  few  ;  and  archers  of  England  six  thousand,  the  best  men  in 
the  realm,  whose  backs  no  man  had  seen.  And  they  took 
their  ships,  earnest  to  aid  the  countess  with  all  speed  ;  but  they 
were  overtaken  by  a  mighty  storm  and  tempest,  and  forced  to 
remain  at  sea  forty  days,  so  that  much  ill  fell  out,  and  more 
would  have  befallen,  but  that  it  was  not  to  be  otherwise  in  the 
end,  but  that  the  countess  should  hold  the  duchy  as  her  own, 
and  her,  son's  for  ever. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Count  Charles  of  Blois  pressed  closer 
and  closer  to  the  town,  and  harassed  the  people  sorely,  so  that 
the  gentlemen  and  soldiers  being  but  a  few,  and  the  rogue 
townsmen  many,  when  they  saw  that  no  succors  came  nor 
seemed  like  to  come,  they  grew  impatient ;  and  when  Sir  Wil- 


40  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

liam  de  Cadoudal  was  determined  to  make  no  surrender,  they 
rose  on  him  by  night,  and  cast  him  into  prison  ;  and  so  basely 
and  treacherously  yielded  up  the  place  to  the  Count  Charles, 
on  condition  only  that  the  men  of  the  Montfort  party  should 
have  no  let  or  hindrance  to  go  whither  they  would,  with  their 
effects  and  followings,  under  assurance. 

Then  Sir  William  de  Cadoudal  joined  the  Countess  de  Mont- 
fort where  she  abode  in  Hennebon,  but  where  she  had  yet  no 
tidings  from  the  King  Edward  of  England,  or  from  Sir  Amauri 
de  Clisson,  or  any  whom  she  had  sent  in  his  company. 

And  she  had  with  her  in  Hennebon  the  Bishop  of  Leon,  the 
uncle  of  that  traitor  Sir  Herve  de  Leon,  Sir  Yves  de  Tresiquidi, 
the  Lord  of  Landreman,  Sir  William  de  Cadoudal,  the  Gover- 
nor of  Guincamp,  the  two  brothers  of  Quirich,  Sir  Oliver,  and 
Sir  Henry  de  Spinefort,  and  many  others. 

Now  the  Count  de  Blois  well  foresaw  that  the  countess  once 
delivered  into  his  hands  with  the  child  John  de  Montfort,  the 
war  was  at  an  end  for  ever ;  and,  without  tarrying  at  Eennes 
when  he  had  taken  it,  he  marched  direct  upon  Hennebon,  to 
take  it  if  he  might  by  assault,  and  if  not,  to  sit  down  before  it ; 
and  the  number  of  his  host  without  was,  as  by  thousands  to 
hundreds  of  those  within ;  and  there  were  among  them  many 
great  names  for  valor  and  for  prowess — but  there  was  that 
within  which  without  was  lacking,  the  indomitable  heart,  the 
immortal  love  of  a  true  woman. 

It  was  a  little  before  noon  on  the  20th  day  of  May,  1342, 
when  the  vanguard  of  that  great  host  might  be  seen  from  the 
walls  of  Hennebon  ;  and  a  beautiful  sight  it  was  to  see  them 
come;  to  behold  the  pennons  and  pennoncelles,  the  helmets 
and  habergeons,  the  plumes  and  surcoats,  flashing  and  shim- 
mering in  the  sunshine,  and  waving  in  the  light  airs  ;  and  such 
numbers  of  men-at-arms  that  the  eye  might  not  compass  them  ; 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  MONTFORT.  41 

all  marshalled  fairly  beneath  the  square  banners  of  their  lordly 
and  princely  leaders,  so  that  they  seemed  like  a  moving  forest, 
so  upright  did  they  hold  their  lances.  Then  came  the  dense 
array,  on  foot,  of  the  Genoese  cross-bows,  in  their  plate  coats  of 
Italian  steel,  with  terrible  arbalasts  ;  and  the  unrivalled  infantry 
of  Spain,  a  solid  column,  bristling  like  the  Greek  phalanx  of 
old,  with  serried  lines  of  spears. 

The  earth  shook  under  the  thick  thunder  of  their  horse- 
hoofs  ;  the  air  was  alive  with  the  clash  and  clang  of  their  steel 
harness ;  and  all  the  echoes  rang  with  the  shrill  flourishes  of 
their  trumpets,  and  the  stormy  roar  of  their  kettle-drums. 

But  no  terror  did  such  sights  or  sounds  strike  to  the  hearts 
of  that  undaunted  garrison — the  deafening  clang  of  the  alarm- 
bells,  the  tremendous  tocsin  answered  the  kettle-drums  and 
clarions  ;  and  all  within  the  city  armed  themselves  in  hot  haste. 
The  flower  of  the  French  and  Spanish  chivalry  galloped  up  to 
skirmish  at  the  barriers,  and  the  iron  bolts  and  quarrels  of  the 
Genoese  cross-bows  fell  like  a  hail-storm,  even  within  the  ram- 
parts. 

But  ere  that  fierce  storm  had  endured  many  minutes,  up 
grated  the  portcullises,  down  rattled  the  drawbridges,  and  as 
the  barriers  were  withdrawn — banners  and  spears,  and  barbed 
destriers  and  knightly  burgonets  poured  out  from  all  the  city 
gates  at  once,  and  burst  in  full  career  upon  the  skirmishers  of 
the  besiegers ;  then  many  a  knight  was  borne  to  earth,  and  the 
chivalry  of  France  and  Spain  fared  ill  before  the  lances  of  the 
Bretons ;  for  they  could  not  bide  the  brunt,  but  scattered  back, 
dismantled  and  discomfited,  to  their  main  body  ;  while  the 
maces  and  two-handed  glaives  and  battle-axes  of  the  men-at- 
arms  did  bloody  execution  on  the  Genoese,  who  were  not  armed 
to  encounter  the  charge  of  steel-clad  horse,  and  to  whom  no 
quarter  was   given,  not   only  that  they  were   foreigners  and 

3* 


42  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Condottiwi,  but  that  themselves  sparing  none,  they  neither 
looked  for  nor  received  mercy. 

At  vesper  time,  on  both  sides  they  retired ;  the  French  in 
great  fury  at  their  repulse,  the  garrison  of  Hennebon  well  con- 
tent with  themselves  and  with  that  they  had  done. 

On  the  next  day  again,  with  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  "  the 
French  made  so  very  vigorous  an  attack  on  the  barriers,  that 
those  within  made  a  sally.  Among  them  were  some  of  their 
bravest,  who  continued  the  engagement  till  noon  with  great 
courage,  so4hat  the  assailants  retired  a  little  to  the  rear,  carry- 
ing with  them  numbers  of  their  wounded,  and  leaving  behind 
them  a  great  many  dead." 

But  not  for  that  had  they  any  respite  or  relaxation  ;  for  the 
lords  of  the  French  were  so  enraged  at  the  dishonor  which 
had  thus  twice  befallen  their  arms,  that  they  ordered  them  up 
a  third  time  to  the  attack,  in  greater  numbers  than  before, 
swearing  that  they  would  win  the  walls  ere  the  sun  should  set; 
but  for  all  their  swearing  they  did  not  win  that  day,  nor  for  all 
their  fighting ;  for  those  of  the  town  were  earnest  to  make  a 
handsome  defence,  combating  under  the  eyes  of  their  heroic 
chatelaine  ;  and  so  stoutly  held  they  out,  that  the  assailants 
sent  still  to  the  host  for  succors  till  their  last  men  were  in  the 
field,  and  none  were  left,  with  the  baggage  and  the  tents,  but  a 
sort  of  horseboys,  scullions,  and  such  rascals. 

And  still  from  the  hot  noontide,  till  the  evening  breeze  began 
to  blow  in  cool  from  the  sea,  the  din  of  arms,  and  shouts  and 
war-cries,  and  the  clamor  of  the  wounded,  rose  from  the  barri- 
cades ;  and  many  gallant  deeds  of  arms  were  done  on  that  day 
on  both  sides,  and  many  doughty  blows  given  and  received ; 
but  still  the  Lord  Charles  and  his  men  made  no  way,  but  lost 
more  than  they  gained. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  MONTFORT.  43 

And  in  tlie  end  the  los  and  glory  of  the  day,  for  the  most 
daring  deed,  rested  with  a  woman. 

For  the  countess  on  that  day  had  clothed  herself  cap-a-pie  in 
armor,  and  mounted  on  a  war-horse  ;  though  ever  till  that  day 
she  had  been  tender  and  delicate  among  women,  of  slender 
symmetry  and  rare  soft  beauty,  with  large  blue  eyes  and  a 
complexion  of  snow  and  golden  tresses ;  and  she  galloped  up 
and  down  the  streets  encouraging  the  inhabitants  to  defend 
themselves  honorably — for  she  had  no  thought  yet  but  to  com- 
fort them  and  kindle  their  spirit  by  her  show  of  example  ;  nor 
as  yet  did  she  know  her  own  courage,  or  the  strength  that 
resides  in  the  heart  of  a  true  woman. 

"  She  had  already,"  to  quote  old  Froissart,  whose  account  is 
here  so  spirited  and  graphic  in  his  own  words,  that  I  prefer  giv- 
ing the  narration  in  that  old  quaint  language,  to  adding  any- 
thing, or  expanding  the  striking  relation  of  facts  too  strong  to 
bear  expansion,  "  she  had  already  ordered  the  ladies  and  other 
women  to  cut  short  their  kirtles,  carry  the  stones  to  the  ram- 
parts, and  throw  them  on  their  enemies.  She  had  pots  of  quick- 
lime brought  to  her  for  the  same  purpose.  That  same  day  the 
countess  performed  a  very  gallant  deed :  she  ascended  a  high 
tower,  to  see  how  her  people  behaved  ;  and,  having  observed 
that  all  the  lords  and  others  of  the  army  had  quitted  their 
tents,  and  were  come  to  the  assault,  she  immediately  descended, 
mounted  her  horse,  armed  as  she  was,  collected  three  hundred 
horsemen,  sallied  out  at  their  head  by  another  gate  that  was 
not  attacked,  and  galloping  up  to  the  tents  of  her  enemies,  cut 
them  down,  and  set  them  on  fire,  without  any  loss,  for  there 
were  only  servants  and  boys,  who  fled  upon  her  approach.  As 
soon  as  the  French  saw  their  camp  on  fire,  and  heard  the  cries, 
they  immediately  hastened  thither,  bawling  out,  '  Treason ! 
Treason  !'  so  that  none  remained  at  the  assault.     The  countess 


44  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

seeing  this,  got  her  men  together,  and  finding  that  she  could 
not  reenter  Hennebon  without  great  risk,  took  another  road, 
leading  to  the  castle  of  Brest,  which  is  situated  near.  The 
Lord  Lewis  of  Spain,  who  was  marshal  of  the  army,  had  gone 
to  his  tents,  which  were  on  fire ;  and,  seeing  the  countess  and 
her  company  galloping  off  as  fast  as  they  could,  he  immedi- 
ately pursued  them  with  a  large  body  of  men-at-arms.  He 
gained  so  fast  upon  them,  that  he  came  up  with  them,  and 
wounded  or  slew  all  that  were  not  well  mounted ;  but  the 
countess,  and  part  of  her  company,  made  such  speed  that  they 
arrived  at  the  castle  of  Brest,  where  they  were  received  with 
great  joy. 

M  On  the  morrow,  the  lords  of  France  who  had  lost  their 
tents  and  provisions  took  counsel,  if  they  should  not  make  huts 
of  the  branches  and  leaves  of  trees  near  to  the  town,  and  were 
thunderstruck  when  they  heard  that  the  countess  herself  had 
planned  and  executed  this  enterprise  ;  while  those  of  the  town, 
not  knowing  what  was  become  of  her,  were  very  uneasy ;  for 
they  were  full  five  days  without  gaining  any  intelligence  of  her. 
The  countess,  in  the  meanwhile,  was  so  active  that  she  assem- 
bled from  five  to  six  hundred  men,  well  armed  and  mounted, 
and  with  them  set  out  about  midnight  from  Brest,  and  came 
straight  to  Hennebon  about  sunrise,  riding  along  one  side  of 
the  enemy's  host,  until  she  came  to  the  gates  of  the  castle, 
which  were  opened  to  her  :  she  entered  with  great  triumph  and 
sounds  of  trumpets  and  other  warlike  instruments,  to  the  asto- 
nishment of  the  French,  who  began  arming  themselves  to  make 
another  assault  upon  the  town,  while  those  within  mounted  the 
walls  to  defend  it.  This  attack  was  very  severe,  and  lasted  till 
past  noon.  The  French  lost  more  than  their  opponents ;  and 
then  the  lords  of  France  put  a  stop  to  it,  for  their  men  were 
Jrilled  and  wounded  to  no  purpose.     They  next  retreated,  and 


THE    COUNTESS    OF    MONTFORT.  45 

held  a  council  whether  the  Lord  Charles  should  not  go  to  be- 
siege the  castle  of  Aurai,  which  King  Arthur  had  built  and 
inclosed.  It  was  determined  that  he  should  march  thither,  ac- 
companied by  the  Duke  of  Bourbon,  the  Earl  of  Blois,  Sir 
Robert  Bertrand,  Marshal  of  France ;  and  that  Sir  Herve  de 
Leon  was  to  remain  before  Hennebon,  with  a  part  of  the 
Genoese  under  his  command,  and  the  Lord  Lewis  of  Spain,  the 
Viscount  of  Rohan,  with  the  rest  of  the  Genoese  and  Spaniards. 
They  sent  for  twelve  large  machines  which  they  had  left  at 
Rennes,  to  cast  stones  and  annoy  the  castle  of  Hennebon  ;  for 
they  perceived  that  they  did  not  gain  any  ground  by  their 
assaults.  The  French  divided  their  army  into  two  parts:  one 
remained  before  Hennebon,  and  the  other  marched  to  besiege 
the  castle  of  Aurai.  The  Lord  Charles  of  Blois  went  to  this 
last  place,  and  quartered  all  his  division  in  the  neighborhood" 

With  the  Count  Charles  de  Blois  we  have  naught  to  do, 
save  in  so  much  as  his  doings  or  sufferings  have  to  do  absolutely 
with  the  Countess  de  Montfort ;  I  shall  leave  him,  therefore,  to 
win  or  lose  the  castle  of  Aurai,  under  the  fortune  of  war,  while 
I  shall  follow  the  chances  of  that  noble  chatelaine,  the  countess, 
who  remained,  as  we  shall  see,  not  only  beset  by  enemies  with- 
out, but  by  traitors  within,  the  walls  of  Hennebon. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  here,  however,  that  the  Count 
Charles  of  Blois  did  not  take  Aurai,  whether  it  was  built  by 
King  Arthur  or  no — which,  despite  Dom  Froissart,  is  rather 
more  than  doubtful — any  more  than  the  Lord  Lewis  d'Espagne 
took  Hennebon,  which  he  came  perilous  nigh  to  doing,  yet  had 
to  depart  frustrate. 

So  soon  as  the  French  host  had  divided  itself  into  two  parts, 
after  the  taste  it  had  received  of  the  quality  of  the  Breton  gar- 
rison within  the  walls  of  Hennebon,  and  of  the  noble  character 
of  its  heroic  chatelaine,  they  made  no  attempt  any  more  to 


40  PERSONS    AND    TICTURES. 

skirmish  at  the  barriers,  r>v  to  assault  the  walls,  for  in  good 
sooth  they  dared  not,  but  day  and  night  they  plied  those 
dreadful  engines  hurling  in  mighty  beams  of  wood,  steel-headed 
and  ponderous  iron  bars,  and  vast  blocks  of  stone,  shaking  the 
walls  and  ramparts,  wheresoever  they  struck  them,  so  that  the 
defenders  knew  not  at  what  moment  they  would  be  breached, 
and  the  city  laid  open  to  the  pitiless  foe. 

And  now  the  hearts  of  all,  save  of  that  delicate  and  youth- 
ful lady,  failed  them  ;  and  if  she  had  set  them  before  a  fair 
example  of  chivalric  daring,  she  set  them  now  a  fairer  of  con- 
stancy, more  heroical  than  any  action ;  of  feminine  endurance, 
and  fortitude,  and  faith,  grander  than  any  daring. 

The  false  bishop,  Guy  de  Leon,  contrived  to  leave  the  town 
on  some  false  pretext,  and  hold  a  parley  with  his  traitor  kins- 
man Herve  de  Leon — but  for  whose  villany  that  bright  young 
dame  never  had  cased  her  gentle  form  in  steel,  nor  wielded  the 
mortal  sword  in  warfare.  Where  traitors  are  on  both  sides, 
treason  is  wont  to  win ;  and  so  it  well  nigh  proved  in  this  in- 
stance ;  for  the  bishop  returned  with  offers  of  free  pardon  to 
the  garrison,  and  passports  to  go  whither  they  would,  with  their 
effects  unhurt,  so  they  would  yield  the  town  to  Sir  Herve. 

And,  though  the  countess  perceived  what  was  on  the  wind, 
and  besought  the  lords  of  Brittany  with  tears  and  sighs,  that 
made  her  but  more  lovely,  "  for  the  love  of  herself,  and  of  her 
son  ;  friendless  but  for  them ;  for  the  love  of  God  himself,  to 
have  pity  on  her,  and  faith  in  heaven,  that  they  should  receive 
succor  within  three  days,"  it  seemed  that  she  could  not  prevail. 

Nor  was  there  not  cause  for  apprehension ;  since  it  was  clear 
to  all  that  the  ramparts  could  not  stand  one  more  day's  breach- 
ing; and,  those  once  battered  down,  Hennebon  and  all  within 
it  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  merciless. 

The  bishop  was  eloquent,  and  fear  and  hope  more  eloquent 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  MONTFORT.  47 

yet ;  and  ere,  long  after  midnight,  the  council  closed,  all  minds 
but  those  of  three,  Sir  Yves  de  Tresiquidi,  Sir  Waleran  de 
Landreman,  and  the  governor  of  Guincamp,  were  won  over  to 
yield  up  the  city  to  Sir  Herve ;  and  even  those  three  doubted. 
None  so  hopeful  but  to  trust  that  to-morrow's  conference  would 
be  final ;  none  so  strong  in  courage  as  to  dare  support  one 
other  day's  assault. 

All  passed  the  night  in  doubt  and  fear ;  the  countess  alone 
in  brave  hope,  and  earnest  prayer. 

The  day  dawned,  and — as  men  crowded  to  the  ramparts, 
gazing  towards  the  camp  and  the  plain  where  Sir  Herve  might 
be  seen  approaching  with  his  Genoese,  closing  up  to  the  town 
to  receive  possession — the  countess  arose  from  her  knees,  and 
she  alone  of  all  in  Hennebon,  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  sea ; 
for  she  alone,  of  all  in  Hennebon,  had  faith  in  her  God. 

The  sea !  the  sea !  it  was  white  with  sails,  from  the  mouth 
almost  of  the  haven,  to  the  dark  line  of  the  horizon,  flashing 
to  the  new-risen  sun  with  lance-heads  and  clear  armor,  flutter- 
ing with  pennoncelles  and  banners,  blazing  with  embroidered 
surcoats  and  emblazoned  shields. 

And  the  lady  flung  her  casement  wide,  and  gazed  out  on  her 
people,  in  the  market-place,  along  the  ramparts,  in  the  tumul- 
tuous streets,  with  dishevelled  hair,  and  disordered  raiment,  and 
clasped  hands  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  eyes  streaming  with 
tears  of  joy — "  God  and  St.  George  !"  she  cried,  in  tones  that 
rang  to  every  heart  like  the  notes  of  a  silver  trumpet — "  God 
and  St.  George  !  an  English  fleet !  an  English  fleet !  It  is  the 
aid  of  God  !" 

And,  as  the  people  crowded  to  the  seaward  bastions,  and  saw 
the  great  ships  rushing  in  before  a  leading  wind,  with  their 
sails  all  emblazoned  with  Edward's  triple  leopards ;  and  the 
banners  and  shields  of  the  English  Manny,  and  of  their  own 


48  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Amauri  de  Clisson,  displayed  from  the  yard-arms,  and  the  im- 
mortal red  cross  blazing,  above  all,  on  its  argent  field,  they,  too, 
took  up  the  cry. 

"  God  and  St.  George  !  God  and  St.  George !  It  is  the  aid 
of  England !  it  is  the  aid  of  God  !" 

"Thereafter,"  adds  my  author,  whom  I  quote  once  more,  for 
the  last  time,  "  when  the  Governor  of  Guincamp,  Sir  Yves  de 
Tresiquidi,  Sir  Waleran  de  Landreman,  and  the  other  knights, 
perceived  this  succor  coming  to  them,  they  told  the  bishop  that 
he  might  break  up  his  conference,  for  they  were  not  now  inclined 
to  follow  his  advice.  The  bishop,  Sir  Guy  de  Leon,  replied, 
4  My  lords,  then  our  company  shall  separate  ;  for  I  will  go  to 
him  who  seems  to  me  to  have  the  clearest  right.'  Upon  which 
he  sent  his  defiance  to  the  lady,  and  to  all  her  party,  and  left 
the  town  to  inform  Sir  Herve  de  Leon  how  matters  stood.  Sir 
Herve  was  much  vexed  at  it,  and  immediately  ordered  the 
largest  machine  that  was  with  the  army  to  be  placed  as  near 
the  castle  as  possible,  strictly  commanding  that  it  should  never 
cease  working  day  or  night.  He  then  presented  his  uncle  to 
the  Lord  Lewis  of  Spain,  and  to  the  Lord  Charles  of  Blois,  who 
both  received  him  most  courteously.  The  countess,  in  the 
meantime,  prepared,  and  hung  with  tapestry,  halls  and  cham- 
bers, to  lodge  handsomely  the  lords  and  barons  of  England 
whom  she  saw  coming,  and  sent  out  a  noble  company  to  meet 
them.  When  they  were  landed,  she  went  herself  to  give  them 
welcome,  respectfully  thanking  each  knight  and  squire,  and  led 
them  into  the  town  and  castle,  that  they  might  have  convenient 
lodging ;  on  the  morrow  she  gave  them  a  magnificent  enter- 
tainment. All  that  night,  and  the  following  day,  the  large 
machine  never  ceased  from  casting  stones  into  the  town. 

"  After  the  entertainment,  Sir  Walter  Manny,  who  was  cap- 
tain of  the  English,  inquired  of  the  countess  the  state  of  the 


THE    COUNTESS    OF    MONTFORT.  49 

town,  and  of  the  enemy's  army.  Upon  looking  out  of  the 
window,  he  said,  he  had  a  great  inclination  to  destroy  the  large 
machine  which -was  placed  so  near,  and  much  annoyed  them, 
if  any  would  second  him.  Sir  Yves  de  Tresiquidi  replied,  that 
he  would  not  fail  him  in  this  his  first  expedition  ;  as  did  also 
the  Lord  of  Landreman.  They  went  to  arm  themselves,  and 
sallied  quietly  out  of  one  of  the  gates,  taking  with  them  three 
hundred  archers ;  who  shot  so  well,  that  those  who  guarded 
the  machine  fled ;  and  the  men-at-arms  who  followed  the 
archers,  falling  upon  them,  slew  the  greater  part,  and  broke 
down  and  cut  in  pieces  this  large  machine.  They  then  dashed 
in  among  the  tents  and  huts,  set  fire  to  them,  and  killed  and 
wounded  many  of  their  enemies  before  the  army  was  in  motion. 
After  this,  they  made  a  handsome  retreat.  "When  the  enemy 
were  mounted  and  armed,  they  galloped  after  them  like  mad- 
men. Sir  Walter  Manny,  seeing  this,  exclaimed,  '  May  I  never 
be  embraced  by  my  mistress  and  dear  friend,  if  I  enter  castle  or 
fortress  before  I  have  unhorsed  one  of  these  gallopers.'  He 
.  then  turned  round,  and  pointed  his  spear  towards  the  enemy,  as 
did  the  two  brothers  of  Lande-Halle,  le  Haze  de  Brabant,  Sir 
Yves  de  Tresiquidi,  Sir  Waleran  de  Landreman,  and  many- 
others,  and  spitted  the  first  coursers.  Many  legs  were  made  to 
kick  the  air.  Some  of  their  own  party  were  also  unhorsed. 
The  conflict  became  very  serious,  for  reinforcements  were  per- 
petually coming  from  the  camp  ;  and  the  English  were  obliged 
to  retreat  towards  the  castle,  which  they  did  in  good  order  until 
they  came  to  the  castle  ditch  :  there  the  knights  made  a  stand, 
until  all  their  men  were  safely  returned.  Many  brilliant  actions, 
captures,  and  rescues  might  have  been  seen.  Those  of  the 
town  who  had  not  been  of  the  party  to  destroy  the  large 
machine  now  issued  forth,  and  ranging  themselves  upon  the 
banks  of  the  ditch,  made  such  good  use  of  their  bows,  that  they 


50  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

forced  the  enemy  to  withdraw,  killing  many  men  and  horses. 
The  chiefs  of  the  army,  perceiving  they  had  the  worst  of  it,  and 
that  they  were  losing  men  to  no  purpose,  sounded  a  retreat,  and 
made  their  men  retire  to  the  camp.  As  soon  as  they  were  gone, 
the  townsmen  reentered,  and  went  each  to  his  quarters.  The 
Countess  of  Montfort  came  down  from  the  castle  to  meet  them, 
and  with  a  most  cheerful  countenance,  kissed  Sir  Walter  Manny, 
and  all  his  companions,  one  after  the  other,  like  a  noble  and 
valiant  dame." 

Such  was  the  heroism  of  that  true  lady.  And  so  was  her 
heroism  and  her  faith  rewarded.  Hennebon  was  relieved  ;  and 
the  Count  Charles  de  Blois  soon  died,  but  died  not  Duke  of 
Brittany. 


^liilijjpa  nf  3$atanlt: 


WIFE  OF  EDWARD  III.  OF  ENGLAND. 


1347. 


PHILIPPA  OF  HAINAULT  ; 

WIFE  OF  EDWAKD  in.  OF  ENGLAND. 


The  great  defect  of  history,  so  far  as  regards  the  general 
reader,  is  its  habit  of  systematizing  and  generalizing,  its  method 
of  dealing  with  principles  to  the  almost  entire  exclusion  of 
persons,  of  narrating  events,  effects,  and  causes  in  the  mass, 
with  little,  if  any,  allusion  to  individual  character  or  action ; 
of  leaping  from  war  to  war,  from  revolution  to  revolution, 
without  condescending,  for  one  instant,  to  customs  or  costumes, 
to  physical  or  social  anecdotes,  unless  in  the  form  of  a  lumping 
supplemental  summary  at  the  end  of  a  chapter,  or  of  an  epoch 
so  dry,  so  bald,  and  so  mixed  up  with  questions  of  political 
economy,  and  other  abstruse  and  unpopular  topics,  that  they 
are  skipped  as  tedious  and  irrelevant  episodes.  It  is  to  their 
adopting  the  very  reverse  of  this  plan  ;  to  their  introducing  us 
personally  to  the  halls,  the  tournaments,  the  courts,  the  camps, 
the  oratories,  and  the  prisons  of  individual  characters  of  his- 
tory; to  their  letting  us  hear  the  very  words  that  they  did 
speak,  or  might  have  spoken  ;  letting  us  be  present  at  their 
banquets  and  beside  their  biers,  that  the  school  of  historical 
dramas  introduced  by  Shakspeare,  and  of  historical  romances 
having  their  origin  in  Scott;  and  yet  more  than  these  the 


54  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

delightful  and  artless  contemporaneous  narratives  of  the  old 
chroniclers,  owe  their  deathless  charm  ;  and  it  is  to  this  that 
Macaulay  owes  the  success  of  his  brilliant  and  picturesque, 
though  partial  and  irresponsible  history  of  England. 

The  consequence  of  this  is,  that  men  and  women  of  the  pre- 
sent day,  in  general,  depend  for  their  events  and  facts  of  history 
on  the  sparse  and  disjointed  memories  of  the  crude  and  bald 
abridgments;  of  the,  themselves,  crude  and  bald  generaliza- 
tions, passing  for  history,  which  they  picked  up  as  children, 
abhorring,  not  unnaturally,  that  abhorrent  task,  while  their 
active  and  actual  ideas  of  historical  events  as  acted  realities, 
and  of  historical  personages  as  real  men  and  women,  walking 
and  standing,  eating  and  drinking,  waking  and  sleeping,  wear- 
ing clothes  and  speaking  their  own  thoughts,  they  owe  one  and 
all  to  the  historical  plays  of  Shakspeare,  the  historical  romances 
of  Scott  and  his  followers.  In  some  sort,  it  is  well  that  this 
should  be  so.  It  would  be  well  altogether,  were  the  readers 
able  to  discriminate  between  that  which  is  true  and  that  which 
is  only  truth-like  in  the  dramatical  or  romantical  fiction ;  were 
they,  in  short,  to  limit  their  belief  to  the  costume,  the  language, 
and  the  social  scenery  only  of  the  fiction,  without  giving  to  the 
events  of  the  narrative,  or  the  actions  of  the  personages,  a  cre- 
dence which  they  were  not  intended  to  deserve. 

For,  we  say  it  distinctly,  that  no  reader  of  English  History, 
of  Hume  or  Lingard,  or  even  Mackintosh  himself,  ignorant  of 
the  chroniclers,  can  form  half  so  correct  an  idea  of  the  usages, 
the  language,  the  dress,  and  the  demeanor,  the  daily  lives  and 
the  daily  doings  of  the  English  Kings,  Barons,  and  Commons, 
from  the  days  of  King  John  in  the  early  feudal  ages,  to  those  of 
the  immediate  predecessors  of  Elizabeth ;  when  constitutional 
government,  though  irregular  as  yet  and  ill-defined,  had  taken 
a  firm  foothold  in  the  land  ;  and  yet,  he  who  should  accept  as 


PHILIPPA    OF    HAINAULT.  55 

truths,  Shakspeare's  representations  of  the  course  of  events,  of 
the  characters  and  actions  of  men;  forgetful  that  he  wrote 
according  to  the  bias  of  his  inclinations  and  his  interest,  and 
reviewed  history  so  as  to  gratify  his  patrons  of  the  house  of 
Tudor,  would  err  lamentably  in  his  conclusions  as  to  the  great 
and  fundamental  facts  of  history. 

In  like  manner,  the  reader  of  Ivanhoe,  of  the  Talisman,  and 
of  the  Betrothed,  will  gain  more  insight  into  the  social  life,  the 
domestic  occupations,  the  military  costume,  the  state  of  arts  and 
arms,  the  civil,  religious,  and  literary  condition  of  the  people  of 
England,  of  all  classes,  in  the  times  of  the  crusades — the  reader 
of  Kenilworth  will  learn  more  of  the  state  of  England  at  large, 
from  the  court  to  the  cottage,  during  the  heyday  of  Elizabeth, — 
and  the  reader  of  the  Fair  Maid  of  Perth,  and  that  noble  novel, 
Quentin  Durward,  of  the  real  life  of  Scotland  and  of  France,  at 
their  respective  periods,  than  the  students  of  all  the  modern 
histories  of  England,  France,  and  Scotland,  which  still  pass  as 
standards,  and  which  boast  high  names  of  authors,  published 
from  the  reign  of  Anne,  inclusively,  to  those  of  the  elder 
Georges.  At  the  same  time,  however,  while  he  may  ascribe 
perfect  truth  to  the  general  coloring,  and  to  all  the  details  of 
Scott's  gorgeous  historical  pictures,  he  must  not  give  implicit 
credit  to  his  individual  portraitures ;  he  must  not,  we  would 
say,  accept  events  built  into  tales,  having  a  true  historical  foun- 
dation, in  order  to  connect  and  ornament  the  superstructure,  as 
being  themselves  truths  of  history. 

It  is  to  these  delightful  creations  of  the  two  greatest  poetical 
creators  and  constructors,  in  our  opinion,  who  have  ever  written 
in  any  language,  Shakspeare  and  Walter  Scott,  that  we  owe  our 
own  love  of  history  and  historical  research.  It  was  the  eloquent 
eulogium  of  Froissart,  ascribed  by  the  latter  to  one  of  his  most 
questionable  heroes,  John  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  that   first 


56  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

induced  us  to  open  that  richest  mine  of  romance  and  history — 
of  truth  stranger  and  more"  exciting  than  fiction ;  of  prose  more 
thrilling,  more  effective,  and  more  picturesque  than  poetry,  the 
pages  of  the  ancient  chroniclers.  It  was  then  and  it  was  thence, 
that  we  learned  that  it  is  not  history,  not  the  living  body,  with 
its  muscles,  its  sinews,  its  energy  and  action,  its  doings  and  suf- 
ferings, its  smiles  and  tears,  its  lights  and  shadows,  of  history 
itself  as  it  was,  and  as  it  was  written  by  those  who  saw  it,  and. 
lived  with,  and  were  a  part  of  it ;  but  the  marrowless  and  arid 
skeleton  into  which  the  schools  have  boiled  it  down,  and  scraped 
it  clean,  and  distorted  it,  and  set  it  up  with  wires,  that  we  find 
so  cold,  and  base,  and  arid,  so  rigid  in  its  lines,  so  pallid  in  its 
hues,  so  distasteful  to  the  human  imagination,  so  unsatisfactory 
to  the  human  reasoning.  It  was  then  that  we  began  to  suspect 
that  the  conquerors  and  prelates,  the  kings  and  queens,  the 
knights  and  ladies,  who  are  so  identical  in  their  stiff-starched 
effigies,  as  we  are  introduced  to  them,  row  after  row,  by  grave 
and  cold  historians,  might  possibly  have  been  special  individu- 
alities, with  characters  and  distinctions,  each  of  their  own  and 
different  from  those  of  others,  with  human  hearts,  human  hopes, 
human  affections,  human  fears,  and  human  sorrows  ;  that  they 
might,  nay  that  they  must,  have  had  their  histories  of  inter- 
mingled vice  and  virtue,  of  interconnected  sin  and  sorrow  ; 
their  histories  of  the  human  heart  of  that  olden  day,  with  which 
the  human  heart  of  this  present  day  must  have  much  with  which 
it  can  sympathize ;  must  have  much  from  which  it  can  learn — 
no  word  of  which  will  be  found  in  that  great  compendium  of 
national  growth  and  grandeur,  crime  and  conquest,  treason  and 
triumph,  debility  and  downfall,  which  those,  whom  the  world 
calls  its  historians,  have  given  as  the  history  of  the  world. 

Our  object  it  is  now,  to  endeavor  to  lay  before  the  eyes  of 
our  readers  the  portraiture  of  some  whom  they  never  regarded, 


PHILIPPA    OF    HAINAULT.  57 

if  they  have  regarded  them  at  all,  in  any  other  light  than  that 
of  historical  pageants,  in  the  new  guise  of  real  persons  ;  and  first 
one,  not  the  lowest  or  the  least  estimable,  to  whom  two  notices, 
and  those  of  the  briefest,  are  given  by  Hume,  and  who,  though 
the  wife  and  mother  of  two  of  the  greatest  and  most  estimable 
heroes  of  the  true  chivalric  era,  and  herself,  in  every  respect,  a 
true  heroine,  and  a  true  woman,  is  scarcely  known  to  this  day 
as  a  real  individual,  other  than  an  almost  forgotten  queen  of 
England. 

Philippa,  in.  after  days  the  wife  of  Edward  III.,  and  mother 
of  Edward,  the  Black  Prince  of  England,  was  the  second 
daughter  of  William,  Earl  of  Hainault,  and  first  became 
acquainted  with  her  future  lord,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  when 
he  was  compelled  to  fly  in  company  with  his  infamous  mother, 
Isabella,  "  the  wolf  of  France,"  of  the  poet  Gray,  and  her  com- 
panion in  evil,  Roger  of  Mortimer,  as  well  as  his  father's  brother, 
the  Earl  of  Kent,  from  the  intolerable  tyranny  and  arrogance  of 
the  Le  de  Spencers,  who  then,  by  the  influence  of  the  younger 
Sir  Hugh,  over  the  weak,  imbecile,  and  luxurious  Edward  II., 
held  absolute  dominion  over  England,"  for  protection  to  the 
court  of  her  father. 

The  royal  fugitives  had,  at  first,  found  refuge  in  Paris  with 
King  Charles,  the  brother  of  Isabella,  who  was  as  famous  for 
her  beauty  as  she  was  infamous  for  her  crimes,  and,  above  all, 
for  her  connivance  in  the  atrocious  butchery  of  her  hapless 
husband ;  but  they  had  not  long  received  asylum  there,  before 
the  Le  de  Spencers,  fearing  that  the  queen  would  be  enabled  to 
make  a  descent  on  England  by  aid  of  her  foreign  allies,  and  so 
to  rally  the  malcontent  barons  to  her  standard  and  overthrow 
their  usurped  authority,  set  all  engines  at  work  to  bring  about 
her  expulsion  from  the  court  of  her  brother.  Cardinals  and 
prelates  were  bought  with  gold,  until  the  Pope  was  induced  to 

4 


58  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

command  Charles  of  France,  on  pain  of  excommunication,  to 
banish  his  sister  the  realm  ;  nor,  it  is  probable,  had  the  same 
puissant  worker  on  the  minds  of  men  been  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  king  himself,  for  we  find  it  recorded  by  the  Lord 
Berners,  in  his  graphic  and  eloquent  translation  of  Froissart, 
that  "  he  was  in  sagude  and  will  to  make  his  sister  to  be  taken  ;" 
and  it  is  an  undoubted  fact,  that  at  the  warning  of  her  cousin, 
the  Count  Robert  of  Artois,  she  set  out  at  the  dead  of  night  for 
the  empire,  apprehending  the  surrender  of  herself  with  Roger 
Mortimer,  the  Prince  Edward,  and  the  Earl  of  Kent,  into  the 
hands  of  Sir  Hugh  Le  de  Spencer ;  and  that  she  there  found  a 
refuge  first  in  Ostrevant,  at  the  house  of  a  poor  knight,  Sir 
Eustace  d'  Ambreticourt,  afterwards  one  of  her  son's  paladins, 
and  himself  father  of  one  of  the  first  knights  of  the  garter,  and 
thereafter  at  Valenciennes,  in  the  house  of  the  Earl  William  of 
Hainault ;  "  who,  as  well  as  his  countess,"  says  old  Jehan  Frois- 
sart, "  received  her  very  graciously.  Many  great  feasts  were 
given  on  this  occasion,  as  no  one  knew  better  than  the  countess 
how  to  do  the  honors  of  her  house.  This  Earl  William  had,  at 
that  time,  four  daughters,  Margaret,  Philippa,  Zoar,  and  Isabella ; 
the  young  King  Edward, — it  must  be  observed,  however,  that 
he  was,  at  this  time,  only  Prince  of  Wales,  and  that  a  fugitive 
prince,  with  no  very  direct  prospects  of  obtaining  his  succession — 
paid  more  court  and  attention  to  Philippa  than  to  any  of  the 
others  ;  and  the  young  lady  also  conversed  with  him  more  fre- 
quently, and  sought  his  company  oftener  than  any  of  her 
sisters." 

With  this  brief  record  ends  all  we  know  or  can  discover  of 
the  courtship  of  the  prince  and  his  fair  and  virtuous  bride,  but 
that  their  love  must  have  been  of  that  ardent  and  impulsive 
character,  which  is  known  as  love  at  first  sight,  cannot  be 
doubted,  when  we  learn  that  they  were  Only  at  this  time  in 


PHILIPPA    OF    HAINAULT.  59 

company  during  eight  short-winged  days,  after  which  the  young 
prince  departed  with  his  mother,  and  such  allies  as  his  good 
cause  and  the  spirit  of  genuine  knight-errantry,  which  was,  at 
that  day,  in  its  prime  of  real  life,  mustered  to  his  standard,  to 
strike  a  blow  for  his  crown,  and  for  the  emancipation  of  his 
country  from  the  abject  state  of  degradation  into  which  it  had 
fallen. 

The  uncle  of  Philippa,  Sir  John  of  Hainault,  contrary  to  the 
opinion  of  the  earl,  his  brother,  and  of  his  council,  who  deemed 
the  enterprise  hazardous,  on  account  of  the  well  known  jealousy 
of  the  English  against  foreign  interference,  resolved  to  accom- 
pany the  princely  exiles,  and  aid  in  reinstating  them  in  their 
birthright,  saying,  in  reply  to  all  the  remonstrances  which  were 
made  to  him,  "  that  he  could  die  but  once ;  that  the  time  was 
in  the  will  of  God  ;  and  that  all  true  knights  were  bound  to  aid, 
to  the  utmost  extent  of  their  power,  all  ladies  and  damsels  driven 
from  their  kingdoms,  comfortless  and  forlorn."  When  the  earl 
had  heard  this,  he  said  to  him — "  Dear  brother,  God  forbid  that 
there  should  be  any  hindrance  to  your  wish,  therefore  I  give 
you  leave,  in  the  name  of  God."  He  then  kissed  him,  and 
squeezed  his  hand,  in  sign  of  great  affection. 

How  young  Philippa  parted  from  her  princely  lover  history 
has  not  thought  it  worth  the  while  to  record,  but  who  can 
doubt  that,  sprung  from  men  whose  every  thought,  every  action, 
was  imbued  with  the  very  odor  and  sanctity  of  true  chivalry, 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  all  associations  high  and  noble,  held 
far  aloof  from  the  contamination  of  any  low,  base,  or  ignoble 
thought,  any  lucre-loving  mercantile  association,  she  sent  him 
away  cheered  with  serene  and  soul-stirring  encouragement ;  that 
she  bade  him  do  kingly,  and,  if  he  might  not  live  a  king,  die 
kingly ;  that  she  assured  him  she  would  rather  be  the  widowed 
leal-love  of  one  brave,  royal  Edward,  dead  under  his  shield 


60  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

knightly,  than  the  crowned  queen  of  the  greatest  king  in  Chris- 
tendom. And  who  can  doubt  that,  when  his  tall  plume  faded 
from  her  sight,  and  the  gleam  and  glitter  of  his  panoply  was 
lost  in  the  distance  among  the  mists  of  evening,  the  tears  dim- 
med her  bright  eyes,  and  darkness  fell  upon  her  heart ;  and 
she  doubted  the  truth  of  the  high  counsel  she  had  been  true 
enough  and  brave  enough  to  give — for,  though  she  w&s  nobly 
born,  and  herself  noble,  and  no  recreant  to  her  race,  she  was  a 
woman,  a  true  woman,  and  she  loved  truly  and  wisely,  and  for 
once,  not  too  well ;  for  he,  the  loved  one,  deserved  and  returned, 
and  forgot  not  ever,  but  awarded  and  prized  to  the  last,  the 
true  love  of  Philippa  of  Hainault. 

For  once,  contrary  to  all  that  Shakspeare  did  ever  hear,  did 
ever  read,  in  tale  or  history,  their  tale  of  true  love  did  run 
smooth. 

The  expedition  was  successful,  the  faction  of  the  Le  de  Spen- 
cers was  put  down,  and  themselves  overpowered  by  a  party 
scarcely  less  infamous  than  that  of  Isabella  and  Mortimer — for 
Edward  III.,  yet  a  minor,  and  taking  no  share  in  the  govern- 
ment, fortunately  for  him  elf,  took  no  share  of  the  guilt — suffered 
by  the  hands  of  the  common  executioner  ;  and  soon  afterwards, 
the  unhappy  and  imbecile  king  ended  an  ignominious  and 
useless  life  by  a  death  so  ignominious  and  so  horribly  atrocious, 
that,  while  history  itself  shrinks  from  recording  it,  it  has  almost 
altered  the  sentence  of  utter  condemnation  of  scorn  and  detes- 
tation, which  would  otherwise  have  attached  to  his  memory, 
into  something  of  that  pity  which  is  still  nearer  akin  to  con- 
tempt than  to  love.  Shortly  afterwards,  however,  Edward,  who 
had  attained  his  eighteenth  year,  and  was  already  remarkable 
for  intellect  and  abilities,  which  might  have  been  termed  preco- 
cious, but  that  they  did  not  meet  the  fate  of  precocity  in  pre- 
mature decay,  succeeded   in  emancipating   himself  from   the 


PHILIPPA    OF    HAINAULT.  61 

arrogant  domination  of  Mortimer,  who,  justly  doomed  by  his 
peers,  died  the  deserved  but  bloody  death  of  a  traitor  on  the 
scaffold  ;  and  was  crowned  with  a  royal  diadem,  in  his  palace 
of  Westminster,  on  Christmas  day,  among  the  rejoicings  of  his 
subjects  of  all  classes,  and  the  happy  auguries,  all  of  which,  by 
a  most  unusual  success  for  popular-succeeding  monarchs,  he 
fulfilled  to  the  letter,  for  the  benefit  of  his  people,  the  honor  of 
his  country,  and  his  own  eternal  glory. 

He  had  not  long  sat  upon  the  throne  of  England,  his  acces- 
sion to  which  was  signalized,  as  was  very  wont  in  those  days 
to  be  the  case,  by  an  invasion  of  the  Scots,  which  he  repelled 
in  person,  before  he  bethought  himself  seriously  of  the  sweet 
damsel  whose  heart  he  had  won  when  but  an  exiled  outlaw 
prince,  and  whom,  in  the  spirit  of  a  true  knight  and  true  man, 
he  was  now  resolved  to  marry,  afor  that  he  loved  her  more 
dearly,  on  her  own  and  her  father's  account,  than  any  other 
lady." 

He  sent,  therefore,  a  sumptuous  embassy  to  demand  her  hand 
of  her  father,  the  Earl  of  Hainault ;  and  having  obtained  a  dis- 
pensation from  the  Pope,  which  was  necessary  on  account  of 
their  near  relationship,  their  mothers  being  cousins-german, 
married  her  by  procuration  at  Valenciennes  ;  after  which  she 
was  escorted  to  London  by  her  uncle,  Sir  John  of  Hainault, 
and  crowned  amongst  great  rejoicings  of  the  people,  and 
"  great  crowds  of  the  nobility,  and  feastings  and  tournaments, 
and  sumptuous  entertainments  every  day,  which  lasted  three 
weeks." 

Immediately  on  her  being  thus  elevated  to  the  throne  of  a 
foreign  country,  she  had  the  rare  wisdom — most  rare,  indeed, 
among  crowned  heads  in  the  female  line — to  adjudge  herself 
entirely  and  wholly  to  the  country  of  which  she  had  become 
one,  to  devote  herself  to  studying  the  interests  and  gaining  the 


62  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

affections  of  her  people,  and  to  identify  herself  wholly  with 
England  by  becoming  herself  an  Englishwoman,  as  she  was 
already  an  English  queen.  Consequently,  although  but  a  little 
while  before  her  accession  and  coronation  there  had  been  sharp 
feuds  and  even  actual  hostility  between  the  English  archers — a 
force  peculiarly  national,  English,  and  even  Saxon  in  their 
origin,  and  as  such  embodying  the  prejudices  and  expressing 
the  feelings  of  the  people — and  the  Hainaulters,  with  her  own 
honored  uncle  at  their  head,  we  hear  of  no  bickerings  or 
jealousies,  much  less  of  any  partialities  on  the  Queen's  part 
toward  her  own  kin  or  countrymen — that  block  on  which  so 
many  queens  have  stumbled  to  their  own  disastrous  downfall 
— that  we  can  find  that  "but  few  of  our  countrymen,"  as 
Froissart  writes,  who  was  himself  a  Hainaulter  born,  and  an 
especially  grateful  servant  of  Philippa — "  remained  with  the 
young  queen  ;  among  whom  was  a  youth  called  Wastelet  de 
Mauny,  to  attend  on  and  carve  for  her,  who  performed  after- 
ward so  many  gallant  deeds  of  arms,  in  such  various  different 
places,  that  they  are  not  to  be  counted." 

To  be  the  wife  of  such  a  champion,  and  such  a  king  as 
Edward,  the  mother  and  instructor  of  such  a  son  as  the  Black 
Prince — the  only  two  men  of  actual  existence,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Bayard,  le  sans  pen  et  sans  reproach,  and  the  good  and 
gallant  Philip  Sidney,  who  have  ever  realized  the  beau-ideal  of 
knight-errantry,  and  the  blended  greatness  and  prowess  of  true 
chivalry,  were  glory  enough  for  any  one  woman  ;  but  she  added 
to  this  to  be  the  judicious  and  constant,  as  well  as  consistent 
rewarder  of  true  merit,  whether  in  art  or  in  arms ;  to  be  the 
defender  of  her  husband's  crown  and  of  her  adopted  country ; 
to  show  that,  like  her  great  successor,  the  lionlike  Elizabeth, 
though  she  were  "  but  a  weak  woman,  she  had  a  man's  heart 
in  her  bosom,  and  that  man's  a  king  of  England  " — for  she, 


PHILIPPA    OF    HAINAULT.  63 

too,  when  her  liege  lord  and  sovereign  was  abroad,  fleshing  his 
victorious  sword  in  the  heart  of  France,  feared  not  to  mount 
the  war-horse  and  gird  the  steel  upon  her  thigh,  and  to  address 
her  troops,  on  the  eve  of  battle,  with  words  of  fire,  that  lighted 
up  an  equal  daring  in  the  heart  of  the  meanest  groom  and  of 
the  proudest  earl  that  fought  at  Neville's  cross,  on  English  soil 
against  a  Scottish  foeman,  and  caused  the  capture  of  a  Scottish 
king,  not  many  days  before  the  monarch  of  the  French  yielded 
himself,  conquered  in  chivalry  and  courtesy  alike,  to  the  victo- 
rious prowess  of  her  son. 

We  are  no  admirers,  not  we,  of  military  glory,  as  attached 
to  women.  We  believe  that  the  mission  of  women,  as  the 
slang  of  the  present  day  runs,  is  a  mission  to  the  home  and 
the  hearth,  to  the  fireside  and  the  cradle,  to  the  nursery  and 
the  sick  bed — that  it  is  a  mission  to  civilize,  and  humanize,  and 
soften,  not  to  teach  or  to  preach  or  to  conquer — that  it  is  a 
mission  to  cheer  the  toils,  comfort  the  homes,  sympathize  writh 
the  griefs,  and  by  affectionate  and  gentle  firmness  to  maintain 
the  courage  of  man  against  the  shocks  of  this  world,  and  the 
apprehensions  of  the  next.  We  believe,  in  a  word,  that  the 
God  of  nature,  as  nature  itself  indicates,  intended  them  to  be 
the  mothers  and  the  wives  of  men,  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  to 
lean  on  the  superior  hardihood  of  man,  and  to  soften  and  adorn 
his  hardness  as  the  honeysuckle  embellishes  the  oak,  to  which 
it  clings  for  shelter  and  support.  We  believe  that  the  rights 
of  women  are  to  be  held  highest  and  holiest  of  human  things, 
above  all  pollution,  aloof  from  all  insult,  free  from  all  harm,  to 
be  loved,  cherished,  honored,  worshipped  next  below  God — but 
neither  to  be  orators  nor  statesmen,  heads  of  firms  nor  chiefs  of 
battalions,  champions  of  aristocracy  nor  propagandists  of  liberty. 
We  have  no  sympathy  with  your  gallant  dragoonesses  of  modern 
Hungary  or  modern  Poland,  no  respect  for  your  Miss-Captain 


64  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

of  Hussars,  Emily  this,  or  Countess-General  of  Artillery,  Lady 
Sarah  that — we  believe  that  if  women  choose  voluntarily  to 
take  to  the  work  of  men,  and  make  themselves  men,  they  have 
no  right  to  complain  when  they  share  the  fate  of  men.  Let 
them  follow  squadrons,  if  they  will,  cheer  their  wounded,  sus- 
tain their  dying  husbands ;  so  shall  they  earn  that  deathless 
renown,  as  true  heroines,  which  clings  to  the  Baroness  de 
Eeidesell,  and  the  Lady  Harriet  Acland,  of  Saratoga  and  Still- 
water— but  let  them  not  presume  to  lead  squadrons  and  unsex 
themselves,  descending  into  soldiers,  else  shall  they  merit  their 
true  name  of  termagants  and  viragoes,  and  "  taking  to  the 
sword  shall  die  by  the  sword,"  whether  on  the  field  or  on  the 
scaffold,  by  us  at  least  un  pi  tied  and  despised,  not  honored. 

To  all  rules,  however,  there  are  exceptions — and  the  excep- 
tion to  this  rule  is  this,  that  when  by  accident  of  position,  of 
rank,  or  of  circumstance,  the  woman  is  elevated  or  compelled 
into  such  eminence  or  deadly  necessity  of  trust,  as  compels  her 
to  do  actual  battle  in  defence  of  those  committed  to  her  charge, 
she  is  not  only  absolved  of  the  charge  of  unsexing  herself,  of 
the  suspicion  of  unwomanly  ambition  for  notoriety  and  loud 
report,  of  yet  more  unwomanly  love  for  masculine  attire,  mas- 
culine display,  perhaps  masculine  thirst  for  blood  and  glory, 
but  is  entitled  to  the  highest  praise  for  daring,  at  the  call  of  a 
higher  moral  duty,  to  "  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature,"  and 
forgetful  of  the  gentleness  of  woman  to  put  on  the  fiery  courage 
and  the  stern  endurance  of  man,  for  daring,  in  a  word,  "  to  do 
her  duty  in  that  sphere  of  life  to  which  it  has  pleased  God  to 
call  her." 

Such  was  the  position  of  Philippa,  when  her  brave  husband 
and  her  brave  son  afar  off  in  foreign  lands,  doing  battle  for 
their  country,  herself  appointed  the  vicegerent  of  the  crown 
and  regent  of  the  realm,  with  a  foreign  enemy  polluting  Eng- 


PHILIPPA    OF    HAINATJLT.  65 

lish  soil  with  their  footsteps,  and  foreign  banners  flouting  the 
free  wind  of  England,  she  buckled  the  lion  casque  over  her 
matron  pillet,  and  drew  the  sword,  and  breathed  the  breath  of 
liberty  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  heard  her  thrilling  words  on 
that  wild  plain  of  Cumberland,  and  filled  the  meanest  of  her 
followers  with  that  heaven-reaching  valor  which  makes  triumph 
certain. 

Such  was  the  position  of  Elizabeth,  when  she  rode  her  war- 
horse,  in  full  caparison,  along  the  mustered  train-bands  and 
militia  of  her  realm,  weak-seeming  bulwark  for  the  liberties 
and  the  religion  of  her  land,  against  the  ianconquered  veterans 
of  the  low  country,  the  far  famed  Spanish  infantry,  the  freight 
of  the  invincible  Armada,  and  swore  that  she  would  fight,  and 
if  she  could  not  live,  then  die,  a  king  of  England. 

Such  was  the  position  of  Maria  Theresa,  when  she  drew  her 
sabre,  on  the  guarded  mount,  all  as  she  harangued  her  tumul- 
tuous legions  of  noble  cavalry,  before  the  unhallowed  partition 
of  her  realm,  and  her  words  of  flame  were  answered  by  the 
unanimous  cry,  while  every  sword  leaped  from  its  scabbard, 
through  that  mighty  host,  moriamur,  moriamur,  pro  rege  nos- 
tro,  Maria  Theresa.11 

Such  is  the  position  of  the  backwoodsman's  wife  ;  Kentucky 
and  Tennessee,  the  dark  and  bloody  ground,  can  tell  of  many 
a  one  who,  when  alone  at  dead  of  night,  or  with  her  terrified 
and  helpless  little  ones  only  around,  startled  from  sleep  by  the 
appalling  sounds  of  the  war-whoop,  far  pealing  through  the 
arches  of  the  forest,  has  snatched  the  weapons  of  her  absent 
husband,  and  done  victorious  battle  for  her  hearth  and  her 
home  against  the  fierce  and  wily  savage. 

And  cold  must  be  his  heart,  and  weak  his  glow  of  manly 
spirit,  who  does  not  in  the  same  degree  admire,  and  venerate, 
and  almost  canonize  such  true  examples  of  pure,  legitimate,  and 

4* 


66  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

holy  feminine  heroism,  as  he  doubts,  and  tries,  and  finally  con- 
demns, rejects  as  base  and  spurious,  that  false,  fierce,  unfeminine 
spirit,  which,  assuming  the  garb  of  heroism  to  cover  ambition 
and  love  of  notoriety,  leaps  to  arms,  backs  chargers,  and  lite- 
rally slays  men  in  hand  to  hand  encounter,  only  to  cringe  and 
quail — while  the  gulled,  gaping  mob,  shrieks  horror  at  the  sight 
— when  taken  in  the  soldier's  self-elected  trade,  they  are  com- 
pelled to  abide  by  the  soldier's  doom. 

But  such  was  not  the  character,  such  not  the  action  of  the 
gentle  and  brave  Philippa.  Compelled  by  her  rank  and  state 
to  defend  her  husband's  crown,  and  son's  hereditary  kingdom, 
she  came  forward  for  one  little  moment,  she  showed  herself  for 
one  passing  glance  able  to  perform  her  duties,  even  if  these 
duties  were  the  duties  of  a  man,  and  the  next,  when  victorious 
over  her  foes,  and  the  saviour  of  her  country  and  her  crown, 
retired  into  the  gentle  and  unassuming  routine  of  her  sweet 
and  humble  life,  and  is  next  found — as  we  find  recorded  in 
history — as  crossing  over  the  British  channel,  "  to  throw  her- 
self at  the  feet  of  the  indignant  king,  and  beg  with  tears  the 
lives  of  the  six  rebellious  burgesses  of  Calais,  doomed  to  a  base 
death  on  the  gallows,  by  the  wrath  of  the  unrelenting  victor." 

"We  care  not  that  this  anecdote  has  no  foundation  in  history 
— as  it  has  very  clearly  been  proved  to  have  none,  from  actual 
and  direct  testimony,  as  well  as  from  the  internal  evidence  of 
the  legend — for,  though  it  is  totally  inconsistent  with  the  cha- 
racter of  Edward  III.,  who,  on  no  single  occasion,  is  known  to 
have  acted  otherwise  than  generously,  mercifully,  and  knightly 
to  all  men,  whether  of  high  or  low  degree,  and  who  in  that 
very  siege  of  Calais  had  shown  proof  of  mercy,  very  unusual 
even  in  the  comparatively  humane  warfare  of  modern  times,  in 
permitting  the  unwarlike  inhabitants  of  the  city  to  withdraw 
themselves  from  the  hardships  and  sufferings  of  a  beleaguered 


PHILIPPA    OF   HAINAULT.  67 

city,  after  the  blockade  had  been  completed — still  it  is  evident 
that  no  contemporaneous  writer  could  have  invented  such  an 
anecdote  had  it  been  very  much  at  variance  with  the  spirit  of 
the  times,  or  at  all  inconsistent  with  the  known  character  of  the 
princess  whom  he  desired  to  laud,  that  she  should  "  with  tears 
have  said,  'Ah,  gentle  sir,  since  I  have  crossed  the  sea  with 
great  danger  to  see  you,  I  have  never  asked  you  one  favor ;  now, 
I  most  humbly  ask  as  a  gift,  for  the  sake  of  the  Son  of  the  blessed 
Mary,  and  for  your  love  to  me,  that  you  will  be  merciful  to 
these  six  men  ;T  "  or,  that  "  the  king  should  have  looked  at  her 
for  some  time  in  silence,  and  then  said,  '  Ah,  lady,  that  you  had 
been  anywhere  else  than  here ;  you  have  entreated  in  such  a 
manner  that  I  cannot  refuse  you ;  I  therefore  give  them  to  you, 
do  as  you  please  with  them.' "  The  anecdote  is  known,  proved, 
and  by  all  historians  admitted  to  be  untrue ;  it  is  therefore  un- 
worthy of  a  place  in  history,  except  as  a  foot  note,  illustrative 
of  the  spirit  of  the  times,  and  the  character  by  her  own  contem- 
poraries ascribed  and  believed  to  belong  to  Philippa  of  Hai- 
nault — to  her  honor  it  was  composed,  and  in  her|honor  it  ought  in 
some  sort  to  hold  good,  since  it  is  clearly  what  she  was  capable 
of  doing,  might  well  have  done,  would  probably  have  done  had 
it  been  in  her  way  so  to  do,  and  was  actually  believed  to  have 
done  by  her  servant  and  historiographer. 

From  this  time  forth  we  hear  little  of  her,  a  proof  that  her 
life  flowed  evenly  and  serenely  towards  its  close ;  it  is  the  tor- 
tured and  the  turbulent  waters  that  are  the  most  loudly  bruited— 
those  which  are  most  placid,  which  most  brilliantly  re^°t  the 
hues  of  heaven,  are  the  peaceful  and  the  silent.  <#he  lived  to 
see  her  husband,  who  never  varied  from  his  l^e  for  her,  or  was 
seduced  from  alleg-i*"^  to  her  beauty  bj  younger  or  more  bril- 
liant charw^j  the  greatest  king  in  Christendom ;  she  lived  to 
*<*3  her  son,  the  Black  Prince,  the  most  famous  champion,  the 


C8  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

bravest,  gentlest,  best  knight  in  the  world,  the  glory  of  his 
native  land,  and  the  wonder  of  the  world,  as  he  lives  in  his 
great  renown  to  this  day,  for  all  the  real  attributes  of  the  best 
and  brightest  of  earthly  things— true  Christian  chivalry  ;  a  gen- 
tleman, a  soldier,  a  noble,  a  man,  a  Christian,  and  a  knight  par 
excellence,  for  ever. 

Happy  as  she  had  been  in  her  life,  she  was  no  less  happy  in 
her  death,  for  she  survived  nothing — neither  friends  nor  fame, 
neither  happiness  nor  love.  She  died  as  she  had  lived,  the 
honored  of  her  children,  the  beloved  of  her  husband,  the  adored 
of  her  adopted  country,  the  regretted  of  all — the  best  woman, 
the  best  queen  of  her  own  day — almost  the  best  of  any. 

Hear  what  fell  out  when  this  lovely  woman  passed  away,  for 
the  passage  which  relates  to  it  is  one  of  t}ie  gems  of  Froissart, 
in  the  quaint,  old,  simple,  Saxon  English,  of  his  best,  if  first 
translator,  Johan  Bourchier,  Lord  Berners. 

"  There  fell  in  Englande  a  heavy  case  and  a  common,  how- 
beit  it  was  right  pyteouse  for  the  kinge,  his  children,  and  all 
his  realm.  For  the  good  queene  of  Englande,  that  so  many  good 
deeds  had  done  in  her  tyme,  and  so  many  knights  succored, 
and  ladyes  and  damosels  comforted,  and  had  so  largely  departed 
of  her  goods  to  her  people,  and  naturally  loved  always  the  nation 
of  Heynaulte,  the  country  where  she  was  born.  She  fell  sick 
in  the  castle  of  Wyndsore,  the  which  sickness  continued  on  her 
so  long  that  there  was  no  remedy  but  dethe.  And  the  good 
Wlye,  when  she  knew  and  perceived  that  there  was  with  her  no 
retfMy  but  dethe,  she  deigned  to  speke  with  the  king,  her  hus- 
bande.  And  when  he  was  before  her,  she  put  out  of  her  bed 
her  right  hano,  an(i  took  the  king  by  his  right  hand,  who  was 
right  sorrowful  in  hVa  heart.  Then  she  said,  ?  Sir,  we  have  in 
peace,  joy,  and  great  prosperity,  used  all  our  time  together.  Sir, 
now,  I  pray  you,  at  pur  departing,  that  ye  will  grant  me  ttuo* 


PHILIPPA    OF    HA1NAULT.  69 

desires.'  The  kinge,  right  sorrowfully  weeping,  said,  *  Madame, 
desire  what  ye  will ;  I  will  grant  it.'  '  Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  require 
of  you,  first  of  all  that  all,  manner  of  people,  and  as  I  shall  have 
dealt  with  in  merchandise,  in  this  side  of  the  sea  or  beyond  it, 
that  it  may  please  you  to  pay  every  thing  that  I  owe  them  or 
any  other.  And  secondly,  sir,  all  such  ordnance  and  promises 
as  I  have  made  to  the  churches,  as  well  of  this  country  as  be- 
yond the  sea,  whereas  I  have  had.  any  devotion,  that  it  may 
please  you  to  accomplish  and  fulfil  the  same.  Thirdly,  sir,  I 
require  you  that  it  may  please  you  to  take  none  other  sepulture, 
whensoever  it  shall  please  God  to  take  you  out  of  this  transitory 
life,  but  beside  me  in  Westminster.'  The  kinge,  all  weeping, 
said,  '  Madame,  I  grant  you  your  desire.'  Then  the  good  ladye 
and  queene  made  on  her  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  commended 
the  king,  her  husband,  to  God,  and  her  youngest  son,  Thomas, 
who  was  then  beside  her.  And  anone,  after,  she  yielded  up  the 
spirit,  the  which  I  believe  surely  the  holy  angels  received  with 
great  joy  up  to  heaven,  for  in  all  her  life  she  did  neither  in 
thought  nor  deed  thing  whereby  to  lose  (hurt)  her  soul,  as  far 
as  any  creature  could  know.  Thus  the  good  queene  of  England 
died,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  MCCCLXIX.  in  the  vigil  of  our 
lady,  in  the  myddle  of  August.    Kest  to  her  soul." 


tflje  fmd  rf  it  J&m, 


OR, 


THE    FRENZY    OF    CHARLES    VI. 


1387. 


THE  FOREST   OF  LE  MANS; 
OK,  THE    FRENZY   OF   CHARLES  VI. 


It  was  a  blazing  day  in  August.  For  above  six  weeks  the 
earth  had  been  scourged  with  intolerable  heat ;  not  a  drop  of 
rain  had  fallen  to  refresh  the  fading  verdure,  or  swell  the  chan- 
nels of  the  wasted  rivulets.  The  meadows  and  the  pasture- 
lands  of  Brittany  were  as  sere  and  yellow  as  the  sands  of  the 
Olonne ;  the  foliage  of  the  forests  had  put  on,  two  months  be- 
fore their  time,  the  melancholy  tints  of  autumn.  A  few  mise- 
rable, half-starved  cattle  were  to  be  seen,  the  only  signs  of  life, 
panting  beneath  the  scanty  shelter  of  the  half-denuded  trees,  or 
standing,  fetlock-deep,  in  the  muddy  hollows  which  a  little 
while  before  had  been  cool  ponds  and  watering  places.  No 
song  of  birds  was  to  be  heard  in  the  deserted  woodlands  ;  all 
was  sad,  solitary,  silent. 

From  the  horizon  to  the  zenith  there  was  not  a  cloud  so  large 
as  a  man's  hand  in  the  lurid  sky,  which  shone  with  a  strange 
brassy  glare,  as  if  the  light  were  transmitted  through  a  dusty 
haze,  amid  which  the  blood-red  sun  stood  portentous,  "  shorn 
of  his  beams,"  yet  withering  and  scorching  everything  within 
the  sphere  of  his  malign  influence. 

Not  a  breath  of  wind  moved  the  torpid  air — not  a  leaf,  not 
a  blade  of  grass  quivered. 


74  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

All  that  preserved  its  green  unaltered  over  a  vast  tract  of 
country  was  the  dark  prickly  furze,  patient  of  all  extremes  of 
heat  or  cold,  the  long  sprays  of  the  Spanish  broom,  child  of  the 
arid  waste,  the  stunted  furs  which  spotted,  singly  or  in  clumps, 
the  surface  of  that  blasted  heath,  and  the  heavy  masses  of 
almost  black  pine-forest,  which  gloomed  on  the  level  horizon. 

The  only  sounds  were  the  monotonous  and  droning  cry  of  the 
field-crickets,  and  the  snapping  of  the  seed-pods  of  the  broom, 
which  crackled  away  continually  like  a  pigmy  fusillade  under 
the  hot  noon-tide.  If  the  casual  passage  of  a  dull  and  weary 
ox,  or  the  stealthy  tread  of  the  fox,  the  wild-cat,  or  the  wolf  of 
the  neighboring  forest,  disturbed  the  deep  dust,  which  lay  six 
inches  deep  on  the  many  unfenced  roads  which  meandered 
through  those  sterile  commons,  it  rose  thick  and  dark,  and  hung 
there  long,  fanned  away  by  no  breath  of  air,  and  immovable  as 
though  it  were  a  point  of  question  whether  the  earthy  particles, 
or  the  atmosphere  on  which  they  seemed  upborne,  were  the 
heavier. 

Such  was  the  day,  most  strange,  and  most  unfit,  on  which 
it  was  determined  that  a  royal  army — one  of  those  stupendous 
chevauchees  of  mail-clad  men-at-arms — numbering  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  high-born  cavalry,  which  formed  the  feudal 
array — the  ban  and  arriere  ban  of  France — should  take  the  field. 

Charles  the  Sixth,  the  unhappy  king  of  France,  who  but 
twelve  years  before  had  mounted  the  throne  with  auguries  so 
proud  and  happy,  whose  gay  youth  had  been  blessed  with 
visions  ominous  of  great  glory,  even  while  his  mad  orgies  were 
making  the  sepulchral  vaults  of  St.  Denys  to  resound  with 
revelry  and  riot,  now  a  king  in  little  more  than  name,  betrayed 
by  whom  he  should  most  have  trusted,  deserted  by  his  nearest 
relatives,  alone  among  traitors,  had  resolved — at  length  resolved 


THE    FOREST    OF    LE    MANS.  75 

when  it  was  too  late,  to  assert  his  royalty  and  rights,  to  be — no 
longer  seem — a  king. 

A  few  months  before  an  atrocious  crime  had  been  committed 
in  the  streets  of  Paris,  on  the  holy  festival  of  the  Fete  Dieu, 
almost  within  ear-shot  of  the  palace,  whence  the  intended  victim 
had  scarce  departed,  leaving  the  presence  of  the  king.  "  This 
was  an  attack  of  expiring  feudality  upon  feudal  right,  traitor- 
ously made  by  an  arriere  vassal  on  his  suzerain's  office,  within 
the  very  palace  of  his  suzerain."*  That  was  a  villanous  night 
attack,  a  murderous  ambuscade,  executed  under  the  instigation, 
if  not  by  the  positive  orders  of  the  Duke  of  Brittany — the  secret 
enemy  of  France,  and  sworn  friend  of  the  English. 

The  victim  of  this  base  outrage  was  Sir  Oliver  le  Clisson,  High 
Constable  of  France,  and  the  only  man,  perhaps,  in  all  his  realm 
on  whom  the  unfortunate  monarch  could  really  place  reliance; 
for  his  uncles,  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  and  Berry,  were  his  ill- 
counsellors  at  least,  and  ill-wishers,  while  his  own  brother,  the 
young  and  handsome  Duke  of  Orleans,  recently  espoused  to  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  was  neither  firm 
friend,  nor  sure  dependence. 

By  these  men,  and  by  all  the  secret  evil-doers  and  enemies 
of  the  king,  Clisson  was  mortally  hated,  and  in  addition 
feared. 

"  In  France,f  he  was  Constable,  the  king's  sword  against  the 
barons ;  in  Brittany,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  the  leader  of  the 
barons  against  the  duke.  Closely  allied  to  the  houses  of  Anjou 
and  Penthievre,  he  only  waited  his  opportunity  to  expel  this 
duke,  and  dismiss  him  to  his  friends  the  English.  The  duke> 
who  knew  De  Clisson  thoroughly,  lived  in  constant  fear  of  him, 

*  Michelet's  History  of  France,  book  viii.,  chap.  iii. 
\  Ibid.,  book  viii.,  chap.  iii. 


76  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  dreamed  only  of  the  terrible  man  with  one  eye,  could  never 
forgive  himself  for  having  had  his  enemy  within  his  hands — hav- 
ing held  him,  and  not  having  had  the  courage  to  make  away 
with  him.  ■  Now  there  was  one  who  had  an  interest  in  Clisson's 
death,  having  everything  to  fear  from  the  Constable,  and  the 
house  of  Anjou.  This  was  an  Anquin  lord,  Pierre  du  Craon, 
who,  by  his  theft  of  the  treasures  of  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  his 
master,  during  his  Neapolitan  expedition,  was  the  cause  of  his 
perishing  unsuccored.  His  widow  never  lost  sight  of  this  man  ; 
and  Clisson,  the  ally  of  the  house  of  Anjou,  never  met  the 
thief  without  treating  him  as  he  deserved. 

"  These  two  fears,  these  two  hates,  came  to  an  understanding. 
Craon  promised  the  Duke  of  Brittany  to  rid  him  of  Clisson. 
Returning  secretly  to  Paris,  he  entered  the  city  by  night — the 
gates  being  constantly  open  since  the  punishment  of  the  Mail- 
lotins.  He  filled  his  hotel  in  the  market  St.  Jean  with  cut- 
throats, and  here  they  waited  many  days  with  doors  and  win- 
dows closed.  At  last,  on  the  13  th  of  June,  the  Fete  Dieu,  a 
grand  gala  being  given  in  the  hotel  Saint  Paul,  with  jousts, 
supper,  and  dances,  till  after  midnight,  the  Constable  returned 
from  it  almost  alone  to  his  hotel,  Rue  de  Paradis.  The  vast 
and  silent  Marais,  desert  enough  now,  was  much  more  so  then ; 
great  hotels,  gardens,  and  convents  being  scattered  here  and 
there  over  it.  Craon  stationed  himself  on  horseback,  with  forty 
bandits,  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  St.  Catherine.  On  Clisson's 
coming  up,  they  extinguished  their  torches,  and  fell  upon  him. 
At  first  the  Constable  took  it  to  be  a  freak  of  the  king's  younger 
brother.  But  Craon  would  add  to  death  the  bitter  pang  of 
letting  him  know  by  whose  hand  he  died.  '  I  am  your  enemy/ 
he  cried,  *  I  am  Pierre  de  Craon.' 

"  The  Constable,  who  had  no  other  weapon  than  a  small 
cutlass,  defended  himself  as  long  as  he  could,  but  at  length  a 


THE    FOREST    OF    LE    MANS.  77 

blow  on  the  head  felled  him,  and,  in  falling,  he  luckily  struck 
against  a  half-open  door — a  baker's,  who  was  heating  his  oven, 
the  night  being  far  advanced.  He  had  fallen  head-foremost, 
half  into  the  shop,  so  that  to  complete  the  murder,  it  would 
have  been  necessary  to  enter  it.  But  not  one  of  the  forty  durst 
alight ;  and  preferring  to  believe  that  the  deed  was  done,  they 
escaped  at  full  gallop  through  the  gate  St.  Antoine. 

"  The  news  was  instantly  brought  to  the  king,  who  had  re- 
tired to  bed.  He  would  not  wait  to  dress,  but  throwing  a  cloak 
over  him,  hurried  off  without  waiting  for  his  attendants.  He 
found  the  Constable  come  to  himself,  and  promised  that  he 
would  avenge  him,  swearing  that  nothing  should  ever  be  more 
dearly  paid. 

a  Meanwhile  the  murderer  had  secreted  himself  in  his  castle 
of  Sable  au  Maine,  and  then  in  some  secret  nook  of  Brittany. 
The  king's  uncles,  who  were  overjoyed  at  the  event,  and  who 
had  some  intimation  of  it  beforehand,  to  put  off  the  king  and 
gain  time,  asserted  that  Craon  was  in  Spain.  But  the  king  was 
not  to  be  deceived ;  it  was  the  Duke  of  Brittany  whom  he  de- 
sired to  punish." 

Some  time  had  elapsed  since  the  perpetration  of  the  foul 
deed  of  assassination,  so  great  was  the  desire  of  the  king's 
uncles  to  shelter  the  miscreant,  whose  crime  they  in  sooth 
regarded  as  good  service,  and  their  reluctance  to  proceed  to  ex- 
tremities against  the  Duke  of  Brittany,  who  was  of  their  party, 
and  their  good  friend. 

But  the  king  was  very  urgent,  and  for  once  resolute  in  his 
will,  so  that  nothing  could  make  him  change  it.  For  he  was 
determined  to  drive  the  Duke  of  Brittany  from  his  duchy,  and 
nominate  a  governor  over  it  till  his  children  should  be  of  age, 
that  it  might  be  restored  to  them.  And  it  was  of  no  avail  that 
while  the  king  tarried  at  Le  Mans,  his  uncles  caused  a  letter  to 


78  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

be  written  to  him  by  the  Lady  Jolande  de  Bar,  Queen  of  Ar- 
ragon,  and  cousin-germ  an  of  the  King  of  France,  informing 
him  that  she  had  caused  to  be  arrested,  and  detained  in  prison 
at  Barcelona,  a  French  knight,  who  had  come  thither  with  a 
handsome  array,  intending  to  pass  the  sea  to  Naples,  and  whom 
she  believed  to  be  Sir  Pierre  de  Craon.  The  king,  however, 
was  not  to  be  deceived,  but  persisted  in  his  resolve ;  and  his 
uncles  could  not  refuse  to  accompany  their  sovereign  with  their 
vassals,  since  they  were  bound  in  honor  to  do  so ;  the  rather 
that  in  order  "  to  put  an  end  to  their  repugnances  and  delays, 
he  had  restored  to  the  Duke  de  Berri  that  Languedoc,  of  which 
he  had  on  such  just  grounds  deprived  him."* 

Now,  although  the  king  had  been  for  some  time  past  lan- 
guishing from  the  effects  of  a  raging  fever,  from  which  he  was 
not  well  recovered,  and  was,  moreover,  heart-sick  with  impa- 
tience and  anger  at  the  delays  imposed  upon  him  by  his  trai- 
torous kinsmen,  he  would  now  be  held  back  no  longer  ;  nor 
would  he  listen  to  any  discussions,  but  ordered  the  orirlamme  to 
be  unfurled,  for  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  surely  march. 

On  the  preceding  evening  he  had  sent  for  the  marshals  of  his 
army  to  his  chamber,  and  ordered  them  to  have  the  men-at- 
arms  ready  by  early  morn  to  march  to  Angers ;  "  For,"  he 
added,  "  we  have  determined  never  to  return  from  Brittany  until 
we  have  destroyed  the  traitors  who  give  us  so  much  trouble." 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  terrible  and  oppressive  August 
day  which  I  have  described,  in  the  middle  of  the  month,  when 
the  sun  has  the  greatest  force,  after  having  heard  mass  and 
drunk  a  cup,  the  king  mounted  his  horse,  and  took  his  way  into 
the  forest  of  Le  Mans,  accompanied  by  all  the  following  of  his 
realm  ;  his  uncles,  with  their  vassals,  and  all  the  great  feudato- 

*  Michelet's  France,  ut  sup. 


THE    FOREST    OF    LE    MANS.  79 

ries  of  the  kingdom,  and  men -at- arms,  from  Artois,  Beauvais, 
Fermandois,  and  Picardy,  and  other  distant  countries ;  in  seem- 
ing, a  right  royal  host.  And  yet,  for  all  that,  Charles  was 
alone  with  all  that  glorious  following — alone  in  the  midst  of 
traitors.  The  men  were  about  him,  by  whose  very  hands,  or  at 
whose  instigation,  his  Constable  had  been  attacked  and  stricken 
down  at  his  own  palace-gates,  and  was  it  likely  that  such 
should  be  overscrupulous  about  laying  hands  on  him ! 

During  the?  whole  of  his,  detention  at  Mans,  the  king  had 
labored  hard  at  the  council,  where  he  had  met  more  opposition 
than  assistance ;  he  was  feeble  both  in  mind  and  body,  daily 
attacked  by  fever  fits,  which  were  increased  by  any  contradic- 
tion or  fatigue ;  and  these  his  counsellors  thrust  upon  him 
daily.  No  wonder  if  his  intellects  were  at  times  disordered  and 
obscured — for  it  would  seem  they  would  have  it  so ;  and  the 
more  that  they  observed  his  looks,  wild  and  wandering,  or  his 
words  strange  and  inconsistent,  the  more  they  affronted  his 
desires  and  thwarted  him. 

Moreover,  he  felt,  although  he  gave  no  inch  to  the  feeling,  that 
he  was  beset  with  domestic  enemies  ;  that  he  was  marked  out 
by  the  men  of  his  own  blood,  by  the  nobles  of  his  realm,  the 
clergy,  the  whole  people,  for  hatred — perhaps  for  destruction. 
14  What,  however,  had  he  done,  to  be  thus  hated  by  all,  he  who 
hated  none,  but  rather  loved  all  the  world  ?  his  desires  were  for 
the  alleviation  of  his  people's  burdens — at  least  his  heart  was 
good  ;  and  this  all  the  right-minded  knew  full  well." 

In  this  state  of  mind  and  body,  the  young  king  mounted  his 
horse  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  of  the  morning,  and  rode 
forth  from  Le  Mans,  followed  by  the  whole  of  his  mighty  caval- 
cade, across  a  wide  and  sandy  plain,  exposed  to  the  full  glare 
of  the  scorching  sun.  And  the  dust  surged  up  in  clouds  from 
beneath  the  thousands  of  trampling  hoofs,  and  hung  fixed  in  the 


80  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

sweltering  and  stirless  atmosphere,  like  the  dread  crimson  cloud 
that  heralds  the  deadly  simoom  of  the  Arabian  desert,  stifling 
and  almost  intolerable  to  both  man  and  beast. 

The  horses,  although  travelling  at  a  foot's  pace  only,  literally 
sprinkled  the  soil  with  the  sweat  that  streamed  from  their 
limbs — the  stoutest  of  the  men-at-arms  could  scarcely  endure 
the  weight  of  their  solid  panoply,  while  the  younger  and  weaker 
of  their  number  fainted  from  heat,  or  fell  from  their  saddles, 
.  overdone  by  the  excess  of  toil.  So  insufferable,  in  fact,  was  the 
closeness  of  the  weather,  that  it  was  found  utterly  impossible, 
not  only  to  march  in  order,  or  to  preserve  anything  like  regular 
rank,  but  even  to  hold  together  in  compact  bodies.  And,  con- 
sequently, as  they  were  marching  through  a  friendly  territory, 
with  no  enemy  within  many  leagues'  distance,  and  as  the  coun- 
try— open,  level,  unencumbered  by  fences,  and  traversed  by 
innumerable  roads,  or  rather  tracks,  running  parallel  one  to  the 
other,  over  the  heaths  and  commons — favored  such  operations, 
the  army  subdivided  itself  into  various  bands,  columns,  and 
divisions,  each  under  the  banner  of  its  own  lord  or  leader,  and 
each  marching,  at  its  own  pleasure,  without  concert  or  order, 
towards  a  common  point. 

Nor,  when  the  vanguard  entered  the  great  wooded  tract, 
known  as  the  forest  of  Le  Mans,  was  the  case  materially  altered. 
For,  in  the  first  place,  the  woodland,  like  the  commons,  was 
intersected  by  numerous  wood-paths  and  glades,  used  by  the 
charcoal-burners",  and,  in  the  second,  except  in  rare  spots, 
where  the  underwood,  grew  into  tangled  thickets,  or  masses  of 
large  timber-trees  had  overcrowded  the  coppice,  the  forest  was 
composed  for  the  most  part  of  thin  straggling  underwood, 
scattered  more  or  less  sparsely  over  barrens  overspread  with 
dwarf  heather,  fern,  and  broom,  such  as  offered  no  impediment 
to  the  progress  of  an  array  so  open  and  loose,  not  to  say  undis- 


THE    FOREST    OF    LE    MANS.  81 

ciplined,  as  that  of  a  chevauchee  of  feudal  horse.  Along  the 
principal  causeway  only,  which  ran  in  a  direct  line  across  the 
forest,  was  the  woodland  dense  and  continuous ;  but  here,  and 
on  either  side,  for  a  breadth  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  a  dense  and 
almost  impenetrable  pine- wood  still  prevailed,  with  trees  so 
tall  and  shadowy,  that  at  high  noon  the  road  was  gloomy,  and 
at  early  evening  dark  as  midnight. 

At  a  distance,  the  deep  green  shadows  of  this  avenue  seemed 
to  promise  something  of  coolness  and  relief  from  the  hourly- 
increasing  rage  of  the  sunbeams,  and  to  it  therefore  the  king 
directed  his  way,  followed  only  by  a  few  of  his  personal  attend- 
ants, and  some  men-at-arms  of  his  immediate  guard. 

It  is  hardly  possible,  on  reviewing  the  history  of  the  singular 
occurrences  which  followed,  not  to  believe  that  deep  treason  was 
intended  on  this  occasion  to  the  unhappy  monarch ;  and  that, 
although  in  some  degree  hideously  successful,  the  plans  of  the 
conspirators  were  frustrated,  or,  at  least,  fell  out  differently  from 
what  they  intended,  since  the  final  consequences  of  the  cata- 
strophe were  such  as  could  scarcely  have  been  contemplated,  and 
were,  moreover,  too  distant  and  too  little  certain  to  have  been 
devised  aforehand. 

Certain  it  is,  that  no  advanced  party  was  thrown  forward — 
no  flankers  detached  to  scour  the  woods  on  either  hand — no 
precautions  taken  against  treachery  or  ambuscade,  in  a  place 
singularly  adapted  for  the  harbor  of  lurking  assassins,  and  in  an 
age  when  no  place  was  safe  to  those  in  power,  and  when  pre- 
cautions, the  strictest  and  most  ceremonious,  were  of  daily 
custom. 

No  friend,  moreover,  no  man  of  rank,  or  councillor,  with 
whom  he  could  hold  converse,  by  which  to  while  away  the 
weariness  of  the  hot  and  tedious  march,  or  to  distract  the  heavy 

5 


82         ,  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  distempered  gloom  which  weighed  on  his  spirits,  accom- 
panied him,  or  was  within  call. 

It  can  hardly  be  imagined  that  he  was  not  so  left  alone  of  set 
purpose  ;  so  that,  whatever  might  occur — and  it  was  probably 
well  known  that  something  would  occur — there  should  be  no 
ready  aid  at  hand,  nor  any  witnesses. 

So  the  king  rode  along,  slowly,  in  gloom — in  distempered 
spirits — in  dreamy  and  unsettled  mood.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered, that,  from  his  childhood,  he  had  been  different  from  other 
children,  that  he  had  ever  a  strange  and  visionary  turn  of  mind, 
that  he  believed  himself  to  have  seen  visions  and  have  held 
intercourse  with  things  supernatural. 

Hunting  the  stag  some  twelve  years  before  in  the  forest  of 
Senlis,  he  had  encountered  a  miraculous  deer,  which  had  sur- 
vived to  display  the  golden  collar  with  which  it  had  been  deco- 
rated by  Julius  Csesar,  fourteen  centuries  ago,  to  the  infant  king 
of  Christendom — who  was  destined,  his  flattering  courtiers 
swore,  to  emulate  the  glories  of  the  first  emperor  of  Eome. 

From  that  day  the  mystic  stag  had  been  his  chosen  emblem  ; 
from  that  day  the  wildest  mysticism  of  occult  science,  of  mythi- 
cal romance,  of  awful  superstition  had  laid  hold  of  him  ;  and 
that  they  doubtless  knew  full  well,  and  counted  on,  who  devised 
that  which  followed.  There  is  a  narrow,  scanty  rill,  which  tra- 
verses that  wide,  thirsty  tract,  fed  by  perennial  sources,  crossing 
the  high  road  not  many  miles  from  Le  Mans,  and  nourishing 
along  its  banks  to  the  present  day  a  heavy  coppice  of  alders 
and  water-willows.  Even  in  that  burning  drought  its  shallow 
channel,  too  insignificant  to  require  a  bridge  which  should  span 
it,  contained  a  small  thread  of  water. 

A  huge  oak  tree  completely  overhung  it,  and  the  path 
beneath  its  heavy  umbrage  was  cool  with  grateful  exhalations 
from  the  brooklet. 


THE    FOREST    OE    LE    MANS.  83 

The  king,  merciful  to  his  beast  by  nature — and  the  horse  he 
rode  was  a  favorite — drew  him  in  as  he  set  his  fore-feet  in  the 
channel,  and  casting  his  reins  down  upon  his  glossy  neck, 
suffered  him  to  bend  down  his  head  and  drink,  smiling  the 
while  with  a  faint,  melancholy  smile  at  the  eagerness  with 
which  he  plunged  his  muzzle  into  the  cool  current,  and  clap- 
ping him  on  his  neck  with  his  ungloved  hand.  Seeing  that 
the  king  paused,  his  pages,  who  rode  next  behind  him,  halted  at 
some  hundred  yards'  distance,  and  the  men-at-arms  again  a 
little  space  behind  them,  unwilling  to  intrude  upon  the  monarch 
in  his  mood  of  gloom. 

Suddenly,  a  wild,  prolonged,  plaintive  wail  arose  from  the 
thicket,  more  like  to  the  dolorous  howl  of  some  animal  in  mor- 
tal suffering  than  to  any  sound  of  human  agony  or  sorrow  ; 
and  before  any  one  might  even  surmise  what  was  the  meaning 
of  the  outcry,  a  hideous  apparition  glided  out  from  the  forest 
shadows,  and  confronted  the  astounded  monarch. 

It  was  a  tall,  emaciated  figure  of  a  man,  barefooted  and 
bareheaded,  with  wild,  knotted  elf-locks,  hollow-eyed,  hollow- 
cheeked,  white-lipped,  liker  to  an  animated  corpse  than  to  any 
living  thing.  He  was  clad  in  a  miserable  cassock  of  white 
russet,  and  nothing  can  be  imagined  more-  deplorable  than  his 
whole  aspect  and  condition — the  like  of  him  was  never  seen 
before  that  day,  nor  was  he  ever  seen  or  heard  tell  of  by  any 
after  it. 

As  he  confronted  the  king,  startling  his  horse,  which  threw 
up  its  head  at  the  strange  vision,  he  caught  the  reins  boldly; 
and  the  charger,  one  of  the  bravest  and  most  fiery  that  was 
ever  backed  of  man,  stood  snorting,  with  wide  eyes  and  ex- 
panded nostrils,  trembling  in  every  limb,  sweating  at  every  pore. 

"Ride  back!"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  deep,  monotonous  voice, 
"  ride  back,  noble  king.     You  are  betrayed ! — betrayed !" 


84  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

And  whether  it  was  an  echo,  or  an  accomplice,  or  something 
beyond  nature,  a  deep  response,  "  Betrayed !  betrayed !"  ap- 
peared to  the  distempered  senses  of  the  king — who  sat  in  his 
saddle,  rigid,  glaring  on  his  strange  visitant  like  one  stricken 
with  catalepsy — to  resound  through  the  thickets.  But,  at  this 
moment,  some  of  the  men-at-arms  came  up  at  the  gallop,  and 
beat  the  hands  and  bare  arms  of  the  man,  maniac,  impostor,  or 
seer — be  he  which  he  might — until  he  let  go  his  hold,  and  the 
terrified  horse  sprang  forward,  and  bore  his  royal  master  on- 
ward, almost  unconscious  as  it  seemed  of  all  that  had  passed, 
and  plunged  in  profound  meditation. 

But  no  one  stayed  to  arrest  or  question  that  strange  person- 
age— it  might  be,  because  no  persons  of  authority  were  at 
hand  ;  it  might  be,  because  the  men-at-arms  were  themselves 
shaken  by  superstitious  fancies ;  it  might  be  because  they  were 
so  ordered. 

And  the  figure  ran  along,  the  way,  beside  the  army,  until  the 
men-at-arms  had  all  passed  him  by,  still  waving  his  arms  aloft, 
and  screaming  in  that  dismal,  doleful  tone — "Ride  back,  ride 
back,  sir  king !  betrayed !  betrayed !"  and  none  harmed  him, 
nor  meddled  with  him  at  all.  But  when  the  last  men-at  arms 
had  outstripped  and  passed  him  by,  some  of  them  looked 
back — it  may  be  trembling— and  he  had  disappeared  ;  nor  from 
that  day  did  any  human  eyes  behold  him. 

But  the  king  rode  on — for  none  came  near  to  comfort  him, 
or  converse  with  him,  or  question  him  of  what  had  passed  ;  not 
his  uncles,  nor  his  brother  of  Orleans,- nor  any  of  his  nobles — 
on  "  through  the  weary  forest,  stunted  and  affording  no  shade ; 
on,  into  the  sultry  heaths  and  dazzling  mirages  of  southern 
sand"* — solitary,  alone,  with  a  multitude  around  him. 

*  Michelet's  France. 


THE    FOREST    OF   LE    MANS.  85 

It  was  high  noon,  when  they  cleared  the  forest  and  entered 
on  the  vast,  open  plains ;  on  which,  as  all  the  separate  bands 
denied  out  of  the  forest,  and  spread  out,  as  best  they  might,  to 
avoid  the  dust  and  the  pressure  of  the  multitude,  all  might 
behold  each  other,  and  each  one  the  king,  his  master. 

And  the  sun  was  resplendent,  and  the  heat  was  intolerable ; 
so  that  there  was  none  so  well  used  to  arms  but  he  suffered  by 
it  fearfully,  and  many  of  the  horses  perished. 

At  this  time  the  king  rode  by  himself,  as  before,  to  avoid  the 
dust,  and  the  Dukes  of  Berri  and  Burgundy,  conversing  toge- 
ther, kept  on  his  left  hand,  at  about  two  acres'  distance  from 
him.  The  other  lords— such  as  the  Count  de  la  Marche,  Sir 
James  of  Bourbon,  Sir  Charles  d'Albret,  Sir  Philip  d'Artois, 
Sir  Henry  and  Sir  Philip  de  Bar,  Sir  Peter  de  Navarre — rode 
in  different  paths.  The  Duke  of  Bourbon,  the  Lord  de  Coucy, 
Sir  Charles  d'Angers,  the  Baron  dTvry,  were  following  at  a 
gentle  pace,  talking  together,  at  some  distance  from  the  king, 
nothing  suspecting,  as  it  seemed,  the  misfortune  that  should 
befall  him. 

The  sandy  plain  reflected  the  heat  fearfully ;  and,  as  it  fell 
out,  the  king  was  dressed,  or  buried  rather,  in  a  dress  of  black 
velvet,  and  wore  on  his  head  "  only  a  single  hood  of  crimson, 
ornamented  with  a  chaplet  of  beautiful  pearls,  which  the  queen 
had  given  him  on  leaving  her.  He  was  followed  by  one  of  his 
pages,  who  had  a  Montauban  cap  of  polished  steel  upon  his 
head,  that  glittered  in  the  sun ;  and  behind  him  another  page 
rode  on  horseback,  carrying  a  vermilion-coloured  lance,  en- 
veloped with  silk,  for  the  king,  the  head  of  which  lance  was 
broad,  sharp,  and  bright. 

"  As  they  were  thus  riding,  the  pages — who  were  but  chil- 
dren— grew  negligent  of  themselves  and  their  horses  ;  and  the 
one  who  bore  the  lance  fell  asleep,  and  forgetful  of  what  he  had 


86  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

in  Lis  hand,  let  it  fall  on  the  casque  of  the  page  before  him, 
which  made  both  the  casque  and  the  lance  ring  loudly."* 

At  the  clash  and  glimmer  of  the  steel,  the  king's  frame  was 
shaken  as  if  by  a  convulsive  spasm,  and  he  started  in  his 
saddle,  and  erected  his  head,  which  had  hung  drooping  on  his 
breast,  and  glared  about  him  for  a  moment  with  the  clear,  keen 
glance  of  an  awakened  eagle  ;  he  gathered  up  his  reins,  giving 
his  horse  the  spur,  and  made  a  demivolt,  unsheathing  his 
sword  as  he  did  so,  and  flashing  it  in  the  hot  sunlight. 

"  Forward  !"  he  shouted.  "  Forward,  and  set  on  !  God  and 
Saint  Denys  !     Set  upon  these  traitors  who  would  sell  us  !" 

And,  with  the  words,  he  dashed  between  the  terrified  pages, 
who  scattered  as  they  saw  him  coming,  and  charged  full  upon 
the  knights  who  followed  him,  reining  his  horse,  and  dealing 
sweeping  blows  with  his  sword  from  side  to  side  at  all  whom 
he  approached ;  for  he  was  quite  distraught,  and  fancied  that 
all  around  him  were  his  enemies.  The  Duke  of  Orleans,  his 
brother,  saw  him  coming,  and  fled  in  terror  ;  for  he  saw  that  the 
king  knew  him  not,  or,  perhaps,  fancied  that  he  knew  him  too 
well.  And  Charles  spurred  after  him  at  full  speed,  shouting 
and  gaining  on  him  at  every  stride  of  his  horse — for  he  was 
the  better  mounted.  And  of  a  surety,  he  had  there,  on  that 
day,  overtaken  and  slain  him,  but  that  he  turned  and  winded 
his  horse,  and  so  eluded  him ;  and  now,  as  he  did  so,  some 
knights  or  men-at-arms  rode  in  between  and  interposed  them- 
selves— not  resisting  the  king  or  defending  themselves,  but 
striving  to  avoid  him.  But  right  dearly  did  they  pay  for  their 
gallantry  and  devotion :  for  the  king  was  in  no  sort  himself, 
but  was  as  one  possessed ;  and  he  struck  hard  blows  with  his 
sword,  which  was  well  tempered  of  fine  Bordeaux  steel,  and  cut 

*  Froissart's  Chronicles,  vol.  iv.,  c.  45. 


THE    FOREST    OF    LE    MANS.  87 

down  all  who  crossed  his  path — four  gallant  men-at-arms,  who 
all  died  afterwards  of  the  wounds  which  he  dealt  them ;  and 
lastly  a  good  knight  of  G-ascony,  the  bastard  of  Polignac,  whom 
he  slew  outright  at  a  single  blow. 

And  there  was  a  mighty  concourse  of  men  galloping  in  all 
directions,  and  shouting;  for  those  who  were  near  at  hand,  and 
saw  what  was  to  do,  spurred  this  way  and  that — some  striving 
to  avoid  the  king,  and  some  to  lay  hold  on  him,  that  he  might 
do  no  more  evil,  and  called  to  each  other  that  he  should  do 
likewise ;  and  they  who  were  at  a  distance,  and  might  not  see, 
fancied  that  it  was  a  deer  or  a  hare  that  they  were  hunting — 
but  it  was  the  king.  And  they,  too,  shouted  and  galloped ; 
and  the  wilder  the  tumult  waxed  the  madder  grew  the  king  ; 
until,  at  length,  "  when  he  was  quite  jaded  and  streaming  with 
sweat,  and  his  horse  in  a  lather  from  fatigue,  a  Norman  knight, 
who  was  one  of  his  chamberlains  and  much  beloved  by  him, 
came  behind  and  caught  him  in  his  arms,  though  he  had  his 
sword  still  in  his  hand.  When  he  was  thus  held,  all  the  other 
lords  came  up,  and  took  the  sword  from  him.  He  was  dis- 
mounted, and  gently  laid  on  the  ground,  that  his  jerkin  might 
be  stripped  from  him,  to  give  him  more  air  and  cool  him."* 

They  had  done  better  and  shown  more  mercy  had  they  slain 
him  on  that  day ;  for,  thenceforth,  his  life  was  crueller  to  him  and 
sadder  than  any  death  had  been,  how  cruel  soever — and  those 
who  were  the  causes  of  it  God  will  judge,  for  he  knoweth. 

Then  they  laid  him  on  his  litter,  and  carried  him  back  to  Le 
Mans ;  and  the  marshals  called  back  the  van,  and  told  them 
that  the  expedition  was  at  an  end  for  that  season. 

But,  as  they  returned,  the  word  passed  among  the  knights 
and  men-at-arms,  how,  that  "  to  ruin  France,  the  king  was 
poisoned,  or  bewitched,  before  he  left  Le  Mans  this  morning." 

*  Froissart's  Chronicles,  vol.  iv.,  c.  45. 


88  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

And  the  word  reached  the  ears  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  and 
the  princes  of  the  blood-royal.  So  when  they  reached  Le  Mans, 
they  questioned  his  physicians  what  was  his  distemper ;  and 
they  laid  it  on  his  fever,  and  cleared  themselves  honestly— 
showing  that  they  had  advised  him  to  rest  quiet,  and  forbear 
from  riding  in  the  heat,  but  he  would  not. 

And  they  inquired  of  his  chamberlain  and  butler,  Sir  Robert 
de  Lignac  and  Robert  Tulles,  who  had  given  him  his  last  wine 
and  tasted  it,  and  they  cleared  themselves,  and  brought  bottles 
of  the  same  wine  which  he  had  drunk  of,  and  proffered  them- 
selves to  drink. 

"  Then  said  the  Duke  of  Berry — 

"  '  We  are  debating  here  about  nothing.  The  king  is  poi- 
soned, or  bewitched  only  by  bad  advisers — but  it  is  not  time,  at 
present,  to  talk  of  these  matters.  Let  us  bear  the  misfortune 
as  well  as  we  can  for  the  moment.' 

"And  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  said — 

" l  We  must  return  to  Paris — the  expedition  is  at  an  end.' 

"  They  did  not  then  say  all  they  thought ;  but  they  made 
their  intentions  very  apparent  to  those  who  were  not  in  their 
good  graces,  on  their  return  to  Paris."* 

*  Froissart's  Chronicles,  vol.  iv.,  c.  45. 


tfjjt  3Mo&  tf  Mum: 


M20. 


THE    MAID  OF    ORLEANS. 


It  is  not  within  the  compass  of  argument  to  maintain  that 
the  progress  of  society,  the  advance  of  civilization,  and  the 
growth  of  science,  have  not,  in  some  degree,  affected  and  even 
altered  the  standards,  by  which  men  judge  of  thoughts,  princi- 
ples, and  actions,  as  praiseworthy  or  culpable — nay,  in  the 
abstract,  as  virtuous  and  vicious.  So,  if  we  are  in  error,  it  is 
perfectly  possible  and  consistent  that,  in  two  different  periods  of 
the  world — two  different  constitutions  of  society,  the  very  same 
line  of  conduct  in  man  or  woman  should  call  forth  the  highest 
admiration,  and  acquire  deathless  fame,  or  awaken  criticism 
only,  and  be  judged  dubious  at  the  least,  if  not  disgraceful. 

We  might  instance  the  recorded  hardihood  of  Spartan 
mothers,  inaccessible  to  the  slightest  touch  of  womanly  or 
motherly  feeling,  a  hardihood  which  it  is  still  the  fashion  to 
laud  in  Fourth  of  July  orations  as  the  beau-ideal  of  patriotism, 
heroism,  and  a  genuine  love  of  freedom,  whereas  it  was  in  truth 
no  more  than  the  cold  and  stupid  insensibility  of  minds  unrefined 
by  civilization,  unswayed  by  sentiment,  and  unsoftened  by  any 
of  those  redeeming  graces,  which,  it  is  said,  even  among  the 
most  barbarous  and  savage  hordes,  are  observed  to  relieve  the 
primitive  ruggedness  of  nature  in  the  softer  sex — a  hardihood 


92  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

which,  were  it  now  affected  or  put  on  by  maiden,  wife,  or  mo- 
ther-of  our  race,  would  consign  her  to  endless  scorn  and  loath- 
ing, as  a  woman  deprived  of  the  best  attributes  of  womanhood, 
and  differing  only  from  the  lost  and  lowest  of  her  sex  as  inferior 
to  them  in  the  want  of  that  "  one  touch  of  nature,"  which,  in 
the  words  of  the  great  English  dramatist,  "makes  the  whole 
world  kin." 

In  like  manner,  we  might  adduce  the  practice — for,  among 
the  ancients,  before  the  Christian  era,  it  was  a  practice,  and  a 
time-honored  practice,  too,  among  the  wisest  and  the  bestjof 
men — of  deliberate  and  long  premeditated  suicide.  For  in 
those  days,  not  to  die  by  his  own  hand,  for  one  guiltlessly  sen- 
tenced to  the  hand  of  the  executioner,  or  fallen  into  the  power 
of  unrelenting  enemies,  was  certainly  regarded  as  an  act  of 
cowardice  and  dishonor ;  while  self-murder,  in  a  similar  state 
of  circumstances,  was  held  an  added  title  to  the  immortal  honor 
of  the  sage,  the  patriot,  or  the  unsuccessful  hero. 

At  a  much  later  period,  to  decline  the  arbitration  of  the  sword 
in  quarrels  of  a  private  and  social  nature,  and,  whether  in  the 
case  of  receiving  a  wrong  at  the  hands  of  another,  or  inflicting 
it  at  his  own,  to  deny  the  appeal  to  single  combat,  was  suffi- 
cient— nay,  in  some  countries,  to  this  very  hour,  is  sufficient — to 
deprive  the  highest  member  of  society  of  all  claim  to  social 
position,  to  stigmatize  him  as  a  poltroon,  and  banish  him, 
deprived  of  caste  for  ever,  from  the  companionship  of  men  of 
honor ;  whereas,  it  is  now  the  cry  of  that  popular  voice,  which 
some  infatuated  Roman  once  defined  as  being  the  voice  of  God, 
that  to  endure  obloquy,  calumny,  insult,  nay  blows,  without 
resenting  them,  is  the  best  proof  of  manhood,  of  gentlemanly 
bearing,  and  of  a  clear  and  correct  sense  of  honor. 

Without  entertaining  the  slightest  idea  of  entering  into  the 
discussion  of  any  one  of  these  vexed  and  disputed  questions, 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  93 

we  have  thought  it  well  to  dwell  somewhat  at  length  upon  the 
alteration  of  popular  sentiment  on  these  several  points,  the 
rather  that  in  the  very  person  of  the  Heroine,  whom  we  have 
selected  as  the  subject  of  the  present  article,  we  have  an 
instance  directly  in  point — an  instance  of  conduct  on  the  part 
of  a  young  woman,  which  occurring  as  it  did,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  we  cannot  hesitate  to  pronounce 
the  offspring  of  genuine  patriotism,  of  genuine  heroism,  and 
absolved,  in  consequence  of  the  mode  of  thinking  and  acting 
in  those  days,  from  any  censure  of  indecorum  or  want  of  those 
feminine  attributes,  to  which  everything  else  is  now*,  and  most 
justly,  held  subservient. 

We  are  the  more  especially  called  upon  to  note  this  discre- 
pancy, as  we  might  otherwise  ourselves  fall  under  the  charge 
of  inconsistency,  since  in  a  preceding  paper  on  the  character  of 
Philippa  of  Hainault,  the  admirable  and  womanly  wife  of  the 
third  Edward  of  England,  we  took  occasion  to  express  our 
abhorrence  and  loathing  of  those  women,  who  in  an  age  of 
gentleness,  civilization,  refinement,  and  a  thorough  apportion- 
ment of  their  appropriate  rights,  duties,  and  tasks  to  the  two 
sexes,  have  chosen,  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  nature,  the  mo- 
desty of  nature,  and  the  wholesome  prescriptions  of  society,  and 
in  obedience  to  a  morbid  love  of  excitement,  or  masculine  lust 
for  power  or  fame,  to  undertake  the  parts,  unsolicited  and 
uncalled  for  by  anything  of  duty  or  of  station,  of  propagan- 
dists, conspirators,  patriots,  and  statesmen  ;  and  have  actually  so 
far  forgotten  themselves  as  to  don — not  figuratively,  but  actually 
— the  breeches,  to  become  colonels  of  dragoons,  and  to  fight 
hand  to  hand  among  the  shock  of  martial  gladiators.  Of  a  truth, 
little  as  we  can  sympathize  with  the  executioners — the  scourgers, 
as  it  is  alleged,  of  women,  quite  as  little  can  we  feel  for  the 
scourged  ;  who,  according  to  our  judgment,  having  made  their 


94  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

election,  were  bound  to  abide  by  the  consequences ;  and,  having 
adopted  the  duties  of  manhood,  had  no  right  to  complain  of 
finding  that  they  had  thereby  incurred  the  responsibilities  of 
manhood  also. 

It  is  to  her  gentleness,  to  her  weakness,  and  to  her  alleged 
incapacity  to  contend  with  man,  in  braving  the  shocks  of  the 
world,  the  inclemency  of  seasons,  the  severity  of  toils,  and  more 
especially  the  brunt  of  battle,  that  woman  is  entitled  to  the  pro- 
tection, the  reverence  and — even  when  perverse  and  reprobate — 
to  the  pitiful  clemency  and  considerate  tolerance  of  man.  The 
moment  she  assumes  an  equality  of  mental  hardness,  of  phy- 
sical robustness,  or  of  active  hardihood  and  daring,  she  forfeits 
the  indulgences  willingly  conceded  to  the  implied  weakness  of 
her  feminine  organization,  and  having  deliberately  unsexed 
herself,  may  properly  and  most  righteously  be  judged  as  one 
of  those  among  whom  she  has  chosen  to  enrol  herself,  not  as 
one  of  those  whom  she  has  deserted,  in  defiance  of  every  prin- 
ciple of  decorum,  decency,  or  nature. 

An  effeminate,  and  effete,  and  unsexed  man,  the  Hercules 
degraded  into  a  willing  Omphale,  has  at  all  times  been  regarded 
with  scorn,  abhorrence,  and  that  disgust  which  is  felt  for  rep- 
tiles beyond  and  below  the  attributes  of  nature.  Men  shrink 
from  him  with  plainly  discovered  loathing,  and  true  women 
shake  the  contamination  of  his  vile  presence  from  the  very 
skirts  of  their  raiment. 

Why  is  it  then  ?  why  should  it  be  ?  How  can  it  be  ? — for 
it  is,  alas ! — it  is  even  among  ourselves,  that  the  loud-tongued 
viragoes,  the  sword-drawing  termagants,  who,  ashamed  of  their 
highest  attributes,  the  delicate  sensibilities,  the  finer  organiza- 
tion, the  more  perfect  perceptions,  purer  motives,  holier  aspira- 
tions, and  more  admirable  powers  of  their  own  sex,  who,  in 
love  with  the  brute  force,  the  fierce  ambition,  the  fiery  excite- 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  95 

ment  peculiar  to  us,  "  Pagod  things  of  sabre  way,  with  fronts 
of  brass  and  feet  of  clay," — who  forgetful  of  all  modesty,  pro- 
priety, decorum,  nature,  unsex  themselves  even  to  the  putting 
on  not  the  garb  only,  but  the  feelings  of  the  gladiator,  looking 
on  death  with  wolfish  eyes,  nay!  dealing  death  with  gory 
hands.  How  can  it  be  that  these,  and  such  as  these,  can  meet 
with  sympathy,  nay!  but  with  raptures  of  applause,  triumphs 
of  adulation,  not  from  the  men  alone — though  that  were  bad 
enough — but  from  the  women — the  sensitive,  the  delicate,  the 
femininey  would  that  we  could  add,  the  true-hearted  women  of 
America  ? 

Even  in  men,  and  with  a  good  cause  to  boot,  heroism  of  the 
battle-field — is  it  not  a  bloody  and  a  beastly  business  ?  and  if  the 
state  of  society  may  not  dispense  with  it,  nor  the  constitution  of 
the  human  heart  deny  its  thrill  of  admiring  sympathy  to  the 
brave  man,  the  strength  and  daring  of  whose  spirit  conquers 
the  weakness  of  his  flesh,  and  in  whom  the  love  of  country  or 
of  glory  is  greater  than  the  fear  of  death — in  Heaven's  high 
name  let  us  at  least  limit  the  license  of  the  sword  to  the  male 
hero,  and  doom  the  woman  who  betakes  herself  to  so  bloody 
work  to  a  sentence  as  disgraceful  as  that  which  in  the  male 
attaches  to  the  coward.  It  were  a  just  doom,  sanctioned  by 
nature  and  analogy,  for  each  is  alike  guilty  of  unfitness  to 
rational  duties,  of  rebellion  against  the  veriest  law  of  nature — 
and  here  the  woman  is  the  worst  sinner,  as  offences  of  commis- 
sion must  needs  be  heavier  than  those  of  omission,  and  as  wil- 
fulness is  at  all  times  less  the  subject  of  pity  than  weakness 
which  cannot  always  be  controlled. 

But,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  there  have  been  ages  of  the 
world,  in  which  the  generally  received  opinions  concerning 
duties,  obligations,  and  the  appropriate  functions  and  fitnesses 
of  the  sexes  have  been  so  different  from  these  which  now  exist, 


96  PERSON'S    AND    PICTURES. 

that  the  historian  of  modern  days  is  bound  to  judge  of  the 
actions  and  principles,  the  characters  and  conduct  of  the  great 
and  good,  as  well  as  of  the  base  and  bad,  in  accordance  with 
the  lights  which  they  possessed  and  the  views  which  theu 
obtained,  not  as  if  they  had  occurred  under  the  clearer  blaze 
of  recent  knowledge,  or  under  the  better  ordered  standards  of  a 
wiser  and  more  generous  society.  So  that  many  deeds  may 
have  been  done,  nay  have  been  done,  in  the  troublous  times 
of  the  middle  ages,  which  we  must  admire,  must  elaborate,  must 
hold  aloft,  as  examples  of  splendid  heroism  ;  though  they  would 
nowadays  be  stigmatized  with  propriety  as  indecorous,  and  as 
indicative  of  feelings  and  impulses  which  must  be  regarded  as 
anything  rather  than  honorable.  And  again,  many  deeds  which 
would  now  be  recorded  with  execrations  on  the  heads  of  the 
perpetrators,  as  prodigies  of  cruelty  and  horror,  must  be  narrated 
as  lamentable  instances  of  the  ignorance  and  semi-barbarism  of 
general  society  at  that  period,  but  by  no  means  as  examples  of 
unusual  or  peculiar  ferocity,  or  insensibility,  or  ignorance  of  the 
individual.  Of  the  former  class  are  many  of  the  most  highly 
lauded  warlike  exploits  of  the  middle  ages,  many  of  which  are 
tinctured  with  a  degree  of -hardness,  ruthlessness,  insensibility, 
and  love  of  battle,  if  not  of  bloodshed,  which  would  be  pro- 
nounced in  the  nineteenth  century  as  purely  detestable.  High- 
bred and  gentle  women  looked  upon  strife  and  slaughter,  not 
with  dismay  and  loathing,  but  with  applause  and  admiration, 
and  rewarded  the  most  bloodstained  homicide  with  renown  and 
love.  The  dearest  ties  of  affection  were  broken  on  trivial  points 
of  honor.  Insensibility  to  the  death  of  children,  parents,  wives, 
nay,  the  sacrifice  of  near  kinsmen  to  small  points  of  chivalry, 
were  held  claims  for  honorable  note  and  fame  of  patriotic  hero- 
ism. Quarter  was  rarely  given  on  the  field  of  battle,  until  the 
victors  were  weary  and  worn  out  with  slaying,  unless  for  the 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  07 

sake  of  immeasurable  ransoms ;  and  men  of  the  highest  rank, 
character,  and  condition,  were  suffered  to  languish  miserable 
years  in  closer  durance  than  the  worst  felons  of  our  days,  if  once 
they  were  so  hapless  as  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  enemy  as 
prisoners  of  war. 

Of  the  second  class  are  the  judicial  combats,  the  fearful  pun- 
ishments inflicted  on  innocent  persons  for  witchcraft,  magic, 
devil-worship,  and  the  like,  all  which  absurdities  were  then 
more  generally  believed  to  be  positive  truths,  and  atrocities  of 
hourly  occurrence,  by  the  nations  at  large,  from  the  highest 
and  best  to  the  lowest  intellects,  than  are  the  truths  of  Holy 
Writ  accepted  as  truths  by  the  masses  of  even  the  most  Chris- 
tian communities.  It  is  much  to  be  doubted  whether  down  to 
the  fourteenth  century  there  were  even  ten  men  living  in  Europe, 
from  the  Danube  to  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  who  disbelieved  the 
actual  and  present  agency  of  the  Supreme  Being  in  judicial 
battles,  or  of  the  Evil  Being  in  necromancies,  magical  murders, 
false  prophecies,  and  all  the  fanciful  wickedness  comprised  under 
the  vulgar  name  of  witchcraft. 

In  reviewing,  therefore,  the  first  class,  we  must  not  be  de- 
terred by  the  ruggedness,  the  hardness,  the  impossibility,  nor 
even  by  the  fierce  and  sanguinary  habits  of  the  times,  from  at- 
tributing the  praise  of  true  heroism  to  many  who  were  in  their 
days,  and  according  to  their  acceptance  of  the  nature  of  hero- 
ism, true  heroes,  whatever  might  be  the  title  which  should  be 
justly  given  to  their  deeds  done  nowadays. 

In  like  manner,  recording  the  events  of  the  second  order,  we 
must  beware  of  attributing  individual  cruelty  and  savageness 
to  rulers  and  magistrates  who  ordered  the  infliction  of  penal- 
ties which  make  our  blood  run  cold,  for  offences  which  we 
know  to  have  no  existence,  but  in  the  reality  of  which  they 
implicitly  believed  ;  for  they  were  in  reality  in  no  wise  more 


98  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

censurable  than  the  judge  or  jury  of  a  modern  court  is  for  pro- 
nouncing a  sentence,  or  rinding  a  verdict  of  death,  this  year, 
for  an  offence,  which  the  milder  law  of  another  year  pronounces 
worthy  only  of  a  milder  penalty. 

In  both  these  classes  of  events  and  actions,  so  long  as  the 
actors  have  acted  up  to  the  standards  which  their  own  ages 
considered  best,  highest,  purest,  noblest,  they  must  be  acquitted 
of  all  blame,  and  entitled  to  all  honor.  It  is  only  where  they 
have  fallen  below  the  spirit  of  their  time  in  morality,  or  cle- 
mency, or  virtue,  or  where  they  have  grossly  exceeded  it  in 
superstition,  intolerance,  bigotry,  or  severity,  or,  once  more, 
where  being  themselves  endued  with  clearer  lights,  purer  per- 
ceptions, and  higher  talents,  they  have  used  and  perverted  the 
less  elevated  spirit  of  the  times  to  their  own  selfish,  views  that 
they  deserve  our  sternest  denunciations. 

The  heroine  to  whom  I  have  assigned  this  paper,  presents  a 
remarkable  case  in  point,  under  both  the  views  in  question — 
under  the  first,  as  regards  her  character,  and  the  light  in  which 
we  are  to  regard  her — under  the  second,  as  relates  to  her 
lamentable  and  unmerited  end. 

The  first  question,  as  regards  written  history,  has  always  been 
decided  in  her  favor,  though  it  is  quite  certain  that,  according 
to  existing  ideas,  a  woman  playing  such  a  part  to-day  would 
receive  no  higher  credit  from  the  judicious  or  the  right-minded 
than  a  Marie  Ambrse,  an  Augustina  of  Saragossa,  an  Apollonia 
Jagello,  or  any  other  high-spirited  vivandiere,  whom  we  puff 
in  newspaper  columns  and  praise  in  after  dinner  speeches,  yet 
never  dream  of  introducing  to  our  wives,  or  holding  up  as 
objects  of  imitation  to  our  daughters.  The  second  question 
has  as  generally  been  mistreated  by  historians,  and  attributed 
nationally  as  a  peculiar  disgrace  to  England,  and,  individually, 
as  an  act  of  unusual  atrocity,  to  the  regent  Bedford,  though  it 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  99 

is  perfectly  evident  that  her  fate  would  have  been  identical,  if 
her  captors  had  been  Frenchmen,  and  her  judges  Charles  or 
Dunois,  for  as  the  winning  side  really  believed  her  mission, 
inspiration,  and  powers  to  be  divine,  the  losers  as  readily  sup- 
posed them  to  be  fiendish  :  aad  in  truth,  the  whole  of  her 
career  is  so  strange,  unaccountable,  and  marvellous,  even  apart 
from  the  supernatural  wonders  added  to  it  by  the  one  party, 
and  implicitly  received  by  both,  that  it  would  be  scarce  sur- 
prising if,  in  much  milder  and  more  recent  times,  and  among 
more  enlightened  actors,  such  a  course  of  success  were  consi- 
dered by  the  vulgar  minds,  of  which  by  the  way  there  are  many 
in  every  place,  as  the  result  of  superhuman  powers.  Nay !  I 
believe  that,  could  such  a  thing  have  occurred,  as  the  checking 
of  the  career  of  the  French  arms,  after  Lodi,  Marengo,  Auster- 
litz,  and  Jena,  the  total  and  repeated  overthrow  of  Napoleon, 
and  the  rolling  back  the  refluent  tide  of  battle  from  the  Po  and 
Danube  to  the  Seine  and  Loire,  by  an  Austrian  or  Italian  pea- 
sant maiden,  half  the  consular  or  imperial  armies  would  have 
cried  sorcery,  and  the  other  treason ;  and  if  taken,  she  would 
unquestionably  have  shared  the  fate,  if  not  of  Joan  of  Arc,  at 
least  of  Hofer,  and  a  hundred  Spanish  partisans,  shot  in  cold 
blood  as  brigands.  Nor  do  I  think  the  case  would  have  been 
much  altered  if  Wellington  had  been  driven  from  the  conquered 
Pyrenees  to  the  Tagus  by  a  French  paysanne,  or  the  victor  of 
Buena  Vista  into  the  Rio  Grande  by  a  black-browed  Mexicana 
— at  least  I  am  sure  that  such  events  would  go  further  to  justify 
the  belief  of  supernatural  agency,  than  any  part  of  the  perfor- 
mance of  the  Misses  Fox  of  Rochester  with  their  assistant  knock- 
ers, which  are  believed  by  many,  of  what  some  are  pleased  to 
call  "  the  best  minds  in  the  country,"  to  be,  not  only  super- 
human and  divine,  but  the  best,  if  not  sole  convincing  proofs 
of  the  immortality   of   the   soul.     Oh  !    Plato,  Plato,  if  thy 


100  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

reasonings  were  well,  some  of  them  have  been  received  into 
most  ill  understandings. 

But  to  come  more  directly  to  the  personality  of  my  heroine, 
it  cannot,  I  think,  be  doubted,  whatever  hypothesis  we  may  take 
of  her  career,  that  she  was  a  very  extraordinary,  unusual,  and  in 
some  sort  superior  person.  That  she  was  an  impostor  is  incre- 
dible; and  if,  as  I  doubt  not  to  have  been  the  case,  she  was  a 
visionary  or  enthusiast,  and  perhaps  something  approaching  to 
what  we  call  a  somnambulic  or  mesmeric  personage,  she  must 
have  had  very  rare  faith  in  her  own  mission  as  a  reality,  and, 
what  is  more,  very  rare  powers  of  making  others  also  believe  in 
its  truth  and  divinity,  to  have  effected  what  she  did,  with  the 
means  which  she  had  at  her  command.  For  the  minds  with 
which,  and  against  which,  she  acted,  were  all  minds  of  greatly 
above  average  capacity ;  and  yet  it  appears  to  me  to  be  very 
certain  that  the  leaders  of  both  hosts  did  believe  in  her  real 
possession  of  superhuman  powers — indeed,  I  scarcely  see  how 
at  that  day  and  in  the  then  state  of  the  human  mind,  they 
could  have  believed  otherwise — though  the  French  would  of 
course  regard  the  supernaturalism  as  a  divine,  the  English  as  a 
diabolical  agency ;  for  such  is  the  natural  constitution  of  the 
human  mind,  the  partisans  of  any  cause,  which  they  have  once 
fairly  adopted,  under  whatever  views,  coming  in  the  end  to 
regard  it  as  the  true  and  heaven-favored  cause. 

But  in  order  to  get  a  little  more  nearly  at  this  let  us  see 
what  was  the  state  of  France  at  her  appearance ;  what  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  success,  and  what  the  real  extent  of  her  ser- 
vices to  her  king  and  country. 

About  fourteen  years  before,  the  tremendous  battle  of  Agin- 
court,  won  by  the  fifth  Henry  of  England,  had  more  than 
decimated  the  aristocracy,  and  completely  subdued  the  feudal 
military  power  of  France ;  all  the  leading  princes  of  the  blood 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  101 

royal,  and  a  fearful  proportion  of  the  nobility  of  the  realm,  had 
been  slain  on  the  fatal  field,  or  still  languished  in  English  dun- 
geons. From  that  day  forth  every  species  of  calamity  had 
befallen  the  unhappy  France ;  the  Queen-mother  hostile  to  her 
own  son,  a  minor,  the  dauphin  Charles ;  the  furious  factions  of 
the  Armagroes  and  Burgundians  literally  deluging  the  streets 
of  Paris  with  French  blood  ;  province  against  province  ;  prince 
against  prince ;  and  ever  and  anon  the.  English  profiting  by  the 
dissensions  and  disasters  of  the  enemy  to  break  in  and  over- 
run, and  desolate  and  take  possession,  until  it  really  did  seem 
as  though  the  boastful  pretensions  of  the  English  king  were 
true ;  and  as  though  his  utmost  ambition  was  about  to  be 
realized,  when  he  replied  to  the  Cardinal  des  Ursias,  who  would' 
have  persuaded  him  to  peace — "  Do  you  not  see  that  God  has 
led  me  hither  as  by  the  hand  ?  France  has  no  sovereign ;  I 
have  just  pretensions  to  the  kingdom  ;  everything  here  is  in 
the  utmost  confusion — no  one  thinks  of  resisting  me.  Can  I 
have  a  more  sensible  proof  that  the  Being  who  disposes  of  em- 
pires has  determined  to  put  the  crown  of  France  upon  my  head  V 
And  shortly  afterward,  though  the  battle  of  Bauge,  wherein 
the  Duke  of  Clarence  fell  by  the  spear  of  the  Scottish  cham- 
pion, Allan  Swinton,  and  Dorset,  Somerset,  and  Huntingdon 
were  made  prisoners,  threw  a  solitary  gleam  of  lustre  over  the 
dark  affairs  of  France,  it  availed  not  to  retard  the  progress  of 
Henry,  who  had,  in  fact,  conquered  all  the  northern  provinces, 
and  held  them  in  quiet  possession  ;  who  was  master  of  the 
capital,  Paris,  wherein  his  son,  afterwards  Henry  VI.,  of  most 
hapless  memory,  was  born  amid  general  acclamations,  and 
almost  unanimously  hailed  as  heir  to  both  crowns  ;  and  who 
had  chased  the  Dauphin  beyond  the  Loire,  whither  he  was 
pursued,  almost  in  despair,  by  the  victorious  and  united  arms 
of  Burgundy  and  England. 


102  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Had  Henry's  life  been  prolonged,  it  is  difficult  to  conjecture 
what  would  have  been  the  end,  for  he  was  no  less  politic  as  a 
prince,  and  shrewd  as  a  man,  than  daring,  skilful,  and  successful 
as  a  leader.  But  the  Disposer  of  empires,  whose  fiat  he  had  so 
recently  anticipated,  had  already  disposed  of  his  tenure  of  his 
own,  much  more  of  his  half-conquered  and  rashly-expected 
crown,  and  he  was  summoned  from  the  captured  capital  of 
France  before  that  throne  where  kings  and  clowns  are  judged 
equally,  in  the  thirty-fourth  year  of  his  age,  and  the  tenth  of 
his  reign — a  great  king,  a  great  conqueror,  a  brave,  honorable, 
and,  in  the  main,  a  just  and  good  man.  Few  men  have  per- 
formed more  splendidly  ambitious  acts  from  less  personally  sel- 
fish motives  ;  few  kings  have  attained  such  glorious  greatness 
through  their  own  personal  action,  with  less  alloy  of  evil  or 
detraction. 

His  son,  whom  he  left  not  nine  months  old,  and  "  whose 
misfortunes  in  the  course  of  his  life,"  to  quote  the  language  of 
Hume,  "  surpassed  all  the  glories  and  successes  of  his  father,'' 
succeeded  to  the  crown  of  his  father,  and  to  his  claims  on  that 
of  France ;  nor,  although  minorities  are  proverbially  weak,  and 
the  times  were  turbulent  and  stormy,  did  his  tenure  of  the  one, 
or  his  accession  to  the  other,  appear  at  first  doubtful. 

This  appears  to  me  to  be  in  no  degree  tenable.  In  the  first 
place,  no  person  can  be  half-real  enthusiast,  half-impostor — the 
one  or  other  phase  of  character  must  prevail.  The  impostor  who 
knows  his  own  jugglery,  cannot  believe  in  his  own  supernatural 
power ;  the  enthusiast  who  does  believe,  has  no  need  to  have 
recourse  to  imposture.  Secondly,  so  general  a  religious  impos- 
ture, to  which  jurists,  doctors  of  divinity,  and  ignorant,  super- 
stitious warriors  must  have  lent  themselves,  is  wholly  inconsis- 
tent with  the  spirit  of  the  age  and  the  character  of  the  popular 
mind.     Thirdly,  Dunois,  and  the  other* French  leaders,  had  been 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  103 

daily  and  hourly  beaten,  and  had  never  shown  either  the  talents 
or  the  force  which  they  subsequently  displayed.  Fourthly,  it  is 
little  likely  that  on  the  faith  of  so  shallow  and  childish  an  im- 
posture as  dressing  u,p  a  simple  village  girl,  not  only  sane  but 
shrewd  and  wise  men,  who  had  not  previously  ventured  to  un- 
dertake the  most  trivial  sally,  now  boldly  should  set  armies  in 
the  field,  carry  out  enterprises  of  great  .pith  and  moment,  and 
utterly  paralyse  foes  so  able  as  Suffolk,  Talbot,  Scales,  and 
Falstoffe,  by  a  series  of  well  directed  blows,  stunningly  de- 
livered and  rapidly  followed  up.  Fifthly,  it  is  incredible,  that, 
if  the  French  had  been  such  fools  as  to  try  so  silly  a  trick,  if  a 
mere  trick,  the  English  could  be  so  miserably  gulled.  And 
lastly,  the  empty  and  useless  pageant  of  the  procession  to 
Kheims,  the  whole  distance  through  the  heart  of  an  enemy's 
country,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  hostile  and  undismayed  gar- 
risons, cannot  be  accounted  for  by  political,  military,  or  rational 
grounds,  or  by  any  supposition,  unless  this,  that  every  person  of 
the  French  army,  and  of  the  English  army  also,  was  thorough- 
ly convinced  of  her  supernatural  powers  and  irresistible 
prowess. 

This  supposition  accounts  for  the  attempt,  and  accounts  also 
for  its  success.  And  such  a  conviction  only  could  be  wrought 
upon  such  minds  as  those  of  Charles  VII.  and  Dunois,  of  Suffolk 
and  Sir  John  Talbot,  by  a  person  who  did  really  possess  extra- 
ordinary talents,  extraordinary  enthusiasm,  and  did  really  per- 
form extraordinary  things.  No  one  now  believes  that  Oliver 
Cromwell  really  heard  a  voice,  at  the  dead  of  night,  telling  him 
in  his  obscure  boyhood  that  he  should  be  "  not  king,  but  the 
first  man  in  England,"  nor  is  it  probable  that  John  Hampden 
then  believed  the  vision — but  he  did  believe  the  enthusiasm, 
and  did  believe  the  fact,  as  he  told  Sir  Philip  Warwick,  that 
"  yon  slave  would  be  the  greatest  man  in  England."    The  belief 


104  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

made  the  enthusiasm  of  the  man — the  enthusiasm  of  the  man 
made  the  belief  of  the  followers,  and  the  enthusiasm  and  belief 
excited  made  the  imagined  vision  to  come  to  pass  in  a  palpa- 
ble fact. 

The  facts  are,  that  she  relieved  Orleans,  in  the  first  giving  up 
her  own  opinion  to  the  advice  of  Dunois,  hers  being  the  more 
daring  council — that  she  then  threw  herself  into  the  city, 
marching,  according  to  her  own  plan,  directly  through  the 
English  lines,  the  hitherto  victorious  Britons,  before  a  dozen  of 
whom  hundreds  of  French  had  been  daily  flying  in  panic  terror, 
not  daring  to  attack  her — that  she  stormed  the  lines  of  Suffolk, 
and  utterly  defeated  his  whole  army  with  prodigious  loss — that 
then,  following  up  her  successes,  she  stormed  Jergean,  whither  the 
Regent  had  retired,  carried  the  town  by  assault,  Suffolk  himself 
being  obliged  to  surrender  himself — and  that  a  few  days  after, 
she  again  attacked  the  rear  of  the  late  victorious  army  with  such 
headlong  valor,  that  the  redoubted  FalstofFe  fled  like  a  poltroon 
before  her,  and  was  deprived  of  his  garter  for  cowardice,  while 
Talbot  and  Scales  were  made  prisoners,  and  the  whole  army 
and  cause  of  the  English  utterly  disorganized  and  lost. 

These  are  not  the  acts  of  an  impostor,  nor  of  men  palming  an 
enthusiast,  in  whom  they  did  not  believe,  on  inferior  minds. 
"Where  did  Charles  and  Dunois  gain  the  audacity,  the  skill,  and 
the  fortune  to  recover  all  that  they  had  lost  in  fourteen  years, 
in  as  many  days — where,  indeed,  if  not  in  the  conviction  that 
Joan's  enthusiasm,  visionary  possession,  and  energetic  will,  were 
indeed  of  heaven,  and  themselves  consequently  destined  to  be 
victorious  \ 

The  rest  of  her  career  is  explained  yet  more  easily  on  the 
same  hypothesis.  She  next  declared  that  her  future  mission 
was  to  conduct  Charles  in  triumph,  at  the  head  of  a  small  force, 
to  Iiheims,  across  one  half  the  breadth  of  France,  and  there  to 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  105 

crown  him  with  the  due  ceremonial  of  the  kings  of  France ; 
and  this,  too,  she  accomplished  without  a  banner  raised,  a 
trumpet  blown,  or  a  spear  couched  against  her.  The  attempt 
justified  the  success,  for  the  very  rashness  of  the.  undertaking 
and  inadequacy  of  the  object  increased  the  panic  of  the  English. 
But  in  what  possible  light  must  we  regard  the  statesmen  and 
warriors  whom  Hume  believes  to  have  been  the  moving  actors 
of  this  wonderful  drama,  if  we  believe  them,  when  it  was  their 
business  to  have  hunted  the  invaders  from  post  to  post,  while 
their  panic  was  fresh  upon  them,  until  they  left  the  land  they 
had  so  long  held  as  their  own  ;  if  we  believe  them,  I  say,  at 
such  a  time  to  have  risked  all  they  had  won,  and  their  army 
and  king  to  boot,  for  the  sake  of,  a  mere  empty  pageant,  which 
might  well  have  followed,  but  absurdly  preceded  the  invasion 
of  the  enemy  ? 

This  done,  Joan  declared  her  mission  ended,  her  powers  re- 
voked, and  made  public  her  desire  to  resume  the  dress  of  her 
sex  and  her  former  condition.  She  was  overruled,  and  a  few 
days  afterward  taken  in  a  sally  from  Compiegne,  by  John  of 
Luxembourg,  and  transferred  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  by  whom 
she  was  delivered  over  to  the  ecclesiastical  power,  tried  by  a 
court  of  bishops  at  Rouen,  in  which  only  one  Englishman  sate, 
and  sentenced  to  be  burned  to  death  as  a  witch.  Assailed  on 
all  sides  by  doctors  and  divines,  by  promises  and  threats,  and 
naturally  and  consistently  doubting,  from  her  fall,  the  origin  of 
her  former  successes,  she  declared  her  visions  to  be  illusions 
and  her  powers  impostures,  and  had  her  sentence  thereupon 
commuted.  Having,  however,  resumed  male  habits,  said  to 
have  been  purposely  thrown  in  her  way,  and  again  returned  to 
her  former  belief  in  her  supernatural  inspiration,  probably  from 
the  idea  that  the  male  habiliments  were  supernaturally  sent  to 
her,  she  was  adjudged  a  relapsed  heretic  and  magician,  and 

6 


106  PERSONS   AND    PICTURES. 

she  was  cruelly,  but  in  direct  accordance  with  the  notions  and 
ideas  of  the  age,  burnt  to  ashes  in  the  market-place  at  Rouen. 

I  see  no  cause  to  agree  in  the  belief  that  any  peculiar  cruelty 
prompted,  or  that  any  political  tactics  actuated  either  Bedford 
or  her  judges,  nor  that  it  was  any  "  pretence,"  as  Hume  terms 
it,  "  of  heresy  and  magic,"  by  which  she  was  consigned  to  the 
flames,  but  as  full  a  belief  on  the  part  of  her  slayers  that  she 
was  a  foul  and  fiendish  wizard,  as  her  own  conviction,  and  that 
of  her  followers,  was  full  and  certain  that  she  was  a  messenger 
of  heaven. 

Heroine  and  enthusiast  as  she  was,  spotless  of  life,  dauntless 
of  courage,  hapless  of  death,  but  most  fortunate  of  glory — 
certainly  an  agent  and  minister  of  providence,  not  by  divine 
mission,  but  by  the  working  of  natural  causes — for  she  re- 
deemed the  throne  of  France  to  its  native  owners,  never  again 
to  be  seriously  disputed  by  an  English  claimant — few  heroines 
have  a  fairer  title  to  the  name,  and  none  a  fame  more  spotless. 

Soon  after  the  death  of  Henry,  his  rival,  Charles  VI.,  died 
also.  He  had  for  many  years  possessed  mere  nominal  author- 
ity in  France,  and  his  life  had  been  as  unhappy  to  himself 
as  disastrous  to  his  country.  To  his  son  he  left  only  a  dis- 
puted crown  and  a  divided  country,  and  that  he  ever  owned  the 
one  unquestioned  and  the  other  entire,  he  owed  in  part  to  his 
own  high  qualities,  and  in  part  to  the  character  anr>  achieve- 
ments of  Joan,  the  maid  of  Arc  and  Orleans.  He  was  crowned 
at  Poictiers  Charles  VI. ;  his  Paris,  and  Rheims — the  sacred  co- 
ronation city — being  both  in  the  hands  of  the  English.  This  event 
occurred  in  the  year  1422,  and,  although  Henry  was  an  infant, 
and  when  even  he  arrived  at  manhood  little  better  than  imbe- 
cile, so  splendid  was  the  administration  of  the  protector,  the 
Duke  of  Bedford,  and  so  great  the  talents  of  the  renowned 
generals  who  commanded   under  him,   Somerset,   Warwick, 


THE    MAID    OF    ORLEANS.  107 

Arundel,  Salisbury,  Suffolk,  and  the  still  greater  Talbot,  that 
they  not  only  held  Guienne,  the  capital,  and  all  the  northern 
provinces,  but  pressed  the  war  with  vigor  in  the  south  and  west, 
so  that  the  position  of  Charles  VI.  had  become  almost  despe- 
rate, when  the  disastrous  battle  of  Verne  nil,  second  only  in  the 
slaughter  of  nobility  to  the  fields  of  Cressy,  Poic tiers,  and  Agin- 
court,  reduced  him  to  the  last  extremity,  and  to  such  a  state  of 
hopeless  poverty  and  depression  that  not  only  was  he  compelled 
to  abandon  every  effort  at  sustaining  the  parade  of  a  court,  but 
was  scarcely  enabled  to  procure  daily  subsistence  for  himself  and 
a  few  faithful  followers. 

Just  at  this  moment  some  dissensions  occurred  in  the  Eng- 
lish ministry,  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford  was  recalled  home,  his 
place  being  ably  filled  by  Suffolk ;  and,  although  the  Duke  of 
Brittany  was  beginning  to  look  distastefully  on  the  English  al- 
liance, and  Montargis  was  relieved  by  the  bastard  of  Orleans, 
better  known  in  after  days  as  the  Count  of  Dunois,  so  little 
effect  did  the  change  of  hands  appear  to  have  produced  on  the 
conduct  of  the  war,  that  Orleans,  the  most  important  city  of 
France  in  the  possession  of  Charles,  was  closely  invested  and 
on  the  point  of  yielding,  while  the  king  himself  was  dissuaded 
from  retreating  into  the  remote  provinces  of  Dauphiny  and 
Languedoc  by  the  entreaties  of  the  fair  but  frail  Agnes  Sorel. 

At  this  time  an  incident  occurred  so  strange,  and  with  con- 
sequences so  extraordinary,  that  one  can  scarce  wonder  at  the 
credulity  of  a  French  historian,  who,  describing  the  first  appear- 
ance of  Joan  on  the  scene  of  history,  commences  thus :  "  But  at 
this  crisis  the  Lord,  not  desiring  that  France  should  be  entirely 
undone,  sent  a  woman,"  <fcc,  &c,  evidently  esteeming  her  mis- 
sion as  positive  and  direct  as  that  of  St.  John  or  any  of  the 
Holy  Apostles — nor,  I  conceive,  is  it  at  all  to  be  doubted  that  she 


108  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

herself,  and  those  to  whom  she  revealed  her  visions,  were  as 
confident  of  her  divine  inspiration  and  superhuman  power. 

She  was  a  poor  girl,  of  the  small  village  of  Domremi,  near 
Vaucouleurs,  in  Lorraine,  of  the  very  lowest  class  of  society. 
She  is  variously  stated  to  have  been  a  hostler-wench  at  an  inn, 
and  shepherdess  ;  but  of  irreproachable  conduct,  and  undoubted 
virtue.  It  is  said  that  she  had  manifested  no  singularity  nor 
given  any  tokens  of  possessing  superior  genius,  until  she  was 
seized  by  a  sudden  idea  that  she  saw  visions  and  heard  voices 
commissioning  her  to  re-establish  the  throne  of  France  and 
expel  the  foreign  invaders.  She  first  made  her  way  to  the 
presence  of  Baudricourt,  the  governor  of  Vaucouleurs,  to  whom 
she  declared  her  mission,  and,  although  he  at  first  treated  her 
with  neglect,  she  at  length  so  far  convinced  him  that  he  sent 
her  on  with  an  escort  to  the  -French  court,  at  the  little  town  of 
Chinon.  Here,  it  is  asserted,  that  she  at  once  recognised  the 
king,  though  purposely  disguised  and  surrounded  by  his  cour- 
tiers, and  that  she  claimed  and  described,  even  to  -its  minutest 
ornaments,  and  the  -place  where  it  had  long  lain  concealed,  a 
curious  antique  sword,  which  was  found  in  the  church  of  St. 
Catharine  de  Fierbois.  Hume,  who  is  ever  sceptical,  leans  to  the 
view  that  all  this  was  jugglery,  not  exactly  on  Joan's  part,  but 
on  that  of  the  French  king  and  Dunois,  who  were  determined 
to  use  her  as  an  instrument ;  and  to  the  talents  and  skill  of  the 
leaders,  whose  tactics  he  supposed  were  followed,  Joan  being 
merely  led  as  a  puppet  through  the  host,  he  ascribes  all  that 
follows. 


€l)t  jTaitg  Ctttjimnt  limgtos: 


1437. 


THE  LADY  CATHERINE  DOUGLASS. 


That  was  a  dark  and  bloody  age  all  the  world  over ;  an  age 
in  which,  for  the  most  part,  might  made  right,  and  the  law  of 
force  was  the  only  law  in  existence ;  an  age  in  which,  if  some 
restraint  of  chivalry  and  courteousness  was  still  maintained — 
some  relics  of  the  resplendent  heroism  and  gentle  gallantry  of 
knight-errantry  still  animated  the  bosom  and  actuated  the  con- 
duct of  the  warrior  nobility  of  England,  France,  and  Spain — 
scarcely  a  ray  of  civilization  enlightened  the  deep  gloom  which 
still  brooded  over  the  masses  even  of  those  great  and  powerful 
countries,  who  were  in  fact  little  elevated  above  the  beasts  their 
companions,  and  like  them  easily  satisfied  so  long  as  they 
possessed  a  shelter  against  the  weather,  and  nutriment  to  sup- 
ply their  merest  wants.  In  the  neighboring  realm  of  Scotland, 
however,  the  gloom  of  barbarism  was  impervious ;  no  gentleness 
tempered  the  savage  and  unlettered  valor  of  the  fierce  nobility, 
which  was  at  this  period  their  sole  virtue ;  no  gentleness  even 
towards  the  fair  sex ;  nor  were  these  weaker  and  softer  portions 
of  creation  exempt  from  the  hardness,  the  rigor,  and  sometimes 
the  cruelty  of  the  age.  The  common  people,  whether  on  the 
Borders,  or  the  Lothians,  and  the  Merse,  were  scarcely  superior 
to  the  veriest  savages,  either  in  their  habits  of  thought  or  in 
their  mode  of  life ;  and  it  was  among  the  highest  of  the  larger 


112  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

cities  only  that  any  of  the  comforts  or  refinements  of  life,  only 
k  among  the  monastic  orders  that  any  tincture  of  the  rude  letters 
of  the  middle  ages,  could  be  found  existing. 

Distracted  by  the  feuds  which  existed  among  all  the  noble 
families  of  Scotland — feuds  fought  out  with  all  the  deadly  rancor 
peculiar  to  family  dissensions,  with  indiscriminate  slaughter  of 
all  ages,  sexes,  qualities — waged  with  the  unmitigated  ferocity 
of  the  times — with  the  storming  of  the  castle,  but  without  the 
sparing  of  the  cottage — with  the  devastation  of  the  open  country, 
the  conflagration  of  sparse  hamlets  and  smaller  borough  towns, 
even  in  periods  of  the  profoundest  foreign  peace — that  the  un- 
happy realm  of  Scotland  presented  everywhere  south  of  the 
Highland  line  the  aspect  of  a  country  visited  with  the  extremi- 
ties of  fire  and  sword  by  an  invading  enemy  ;  while  to  the 
northward  of  that  dreaded  demarcation,  the  Highland  clans 
were  wilder  in  their  costumes,  and  no  less  terrible  to  their 
neighbors,  than  were  the  wildest  Indian  tribes  of  North  America 
at  the  commencement  of  the  present  century. 

Yet,  in  this  dark  and  bloody  time,  in  this  distracted  and  al- 
most savage  country,  it  was  the  fate  of  a  sovereign  to  hold  sway 
over  those  ferocious  barons,  and  over  that  turbulent  and  brutal 
commons,  whose  virtues  and  whose  talents  would  have  done 
honor  to  any  age  or  nation,  while  his  whole  career  speaks  vo- 
lumes of  reproach  against  those  in  which  his  lot  was  cast. 

James  the  First,  of  Scotland,  the  first  monarch  of  that  most 
unhappy  of  all  royal  houses,  the  house  of  Stuart,  which,  com- 
mencing miserably  with  his  own  troubled  and  disastrous  reign, 
terminated  no  less  miserably  with  that  of  his  second  English 
namesake,  more  than  two  centuries  later,  leaving,  as  its  annals, 
little  more  than  one  continual  record  of  civil  war  and  domestic 
slaughter,  of  perjury,  tyranny,  persecution,  and  treason,  equally 
on  the  one  and  the  other  side,  of  exile  and  assassination,  of  judicial 


THE  LADY  CATHERINE  DOUGLASS.  113 

combats  and  judicial  executions— James  the  First,  of  Scotland,  was 
the  son  of  Kobert  the  Third,  by  Annabella  Drummond,  herself  a 
distant  relative  of  the  reigning  house,  born  in  1394  to  the  perilous 
heirship  of  that  throne  which  proved  so  fatal  to  his  race.  His 
father — a  weak  and  priest-ridden  prince,  constantly  over-ruled, 
and,  indeed,  virtually  dethroned  by  his  ambitious  brother,  the 
Duke  of  Albany — dreading  the  worst  from  that  false  kinsman, 
sent  his  young  son,  then  in  his  eleventh  year,  to  France,  where 
he  might  be  brought  up  and  educated  by  the  allied  and  friendly 
monarch  of  that  civilized  and  warlike  kingdom,  until  he  should 
attain  the  age  of  manhood,  when  he  should  return  and  claim 
his  own,  a  man  and  a  king  indeed. 

Fate  interposed,  however,  and  by  her  interposition  sealed  the 
doom  of  the  fated  line,  and  determined,  as  it  would  seem,  by 
that  one  act,  the  subjugation  of  the  Scottish  realm  and  its  ulti- 
mate union  with  the  cognate  crown  of  England — a  union  pro- 
lific of  prosperity  and  peace  alike  to  either  country.  An  English 
squadron,  cruising  in  the  North  sea,  intercepted  the  vessel, 
freighted  with  the  fortunes  of  a  nation,  and,  as  the  respec- 
tive countries  were  then  involved  in  war,  carried  it  to  the 
Thames  as  lawful  prize  of  war ;  whereafter  the  young  prince 
and  his  suite  were  consigned,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
day,  state  prisoners  to  the  Tower  of  London. 

Henry  IV.  was  at  that  period  king  of  England ;  and  being 
engaged  in  the  heat  and  fierceness  of  the  French  wars,  imagined 
that  by  the  detention  of  the  young  prince,  who,  in  the  following 
year,  by  the  demise  of  his  weak  father,  became  the  young  king, 
he  could  deprive  France  of  her  Scottish  alliance,  and  therefore 
held  him  in  a  species  of  free  captivity,  half  a  hostage,  half  a 
captive,  but  subject  to  no  other  personal  restraints  than  those 
of  compulsory  residence  within  the  guarded  limits  of  one  or  the 
other  of  the  Royal  Palaces.    Ungenerous  treatment  of  a  surety. 


1  I  4  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

But  when  or  where,  in  what  period  or  what  country,  has  policy 
been  generous  ? — policy,  whose  very  nature  is  selfishness — whose 
only  object  is  to  win  the  present  greatest  good  for  the  man  of 
the  nation,  irrespective  altogether  of  the  fate  or  sufferings  of 
others.  When  we  think  on  Napoleon,  pining  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  his  ocean  isle — a  boundless  empire  and  domain  to  the 
untutored,  unambitious  rustic — yet  to  his  overvaulting  spirit 
strait  in  dimension  as  the  narrowest  of  dungeons  ;  when  we 
think  on  the  noble  Abd-el-Kader,  gnashing  his  teeth,  if  not  ac- 
tually in  fetters,  yet  pent  within  the  circuit  of  stone  walls ;  his 
eye  accustomed  to  range  over  the  illimitable  desert,  over  the 
topmost  peaks  of  his  native  Atlas,  bleared  and  blinking  in  the 
glimmering  twilight  of  his  prison-house — when  we  think  on 
these,  the  victims  of  modern  policy,  how  shall  we  visit  with  too 
light  reproach  the  sins,  the  crimes  of  that  same  policy,  com- 
mitted when  the  lights  of  truth,  of  science,  of  religion,  burned 
dimly  with  a  wavering  flame  over  the  doubtful  nations  ! 

Eichard,  the  Lion  Heart,  tuning  the  cithern  of  the  Trouba- 
dour in  that  Austrian  fortalice — James  Stuart  composing  u  the 
King's  Aubair"  in  the  green  slopes  of  Windsor — John  of 
Valois,  a  languid  captive  in  the  Tower,  "that  den  of  drunkards 
with  the  blood  of  Princes" — Joan  of  Arc,  writhing  on  her  pile 
in  Rouen's  crowded  market-place — Louis  of  Enghien,  in  the 
ditch  of  Vincennes,  at  murky  morning's  dawn — Napoleon  glar- 
ing over  the  blue  Atlantic  from  the  steep  crags  of  St.  Helena — 
and  the  wild  Arab  champion  wasting  like  a  chained  eagle,  in 
slow  agony,  far  from  his  sandy  wastes — a  paradise  to  him — in  the 
heart  of  republican,  free  France,  are  but  so  many  tokens  that 
the  nature  of  man  and  policy  of  nations  is  the  same  as  it  was, 
as  it  has  been,  is  now — will  it  not  be  the  same  for  ever? — 
and  that  the  watchword  of  the  conqueror  is  still  the  same,  Vce 
victis  ! 


THE  LADY  CATHERINE  DOUGLASS.  115 

But  save  in  tliis  the  ungenerousness  of  national  policy  and 
natural  humanity,  Henry  IV.  was  generous  to  his  captive,  for 
in  his  guarded  solitudes  of  Windsor  the  youthful  James  of 
Scotland  received  such  an  education  as  he  could  not  have 
hoped  to  enjoy  in  the  barren  and  unlettered  battle  fields  of 
Caledonia.  He  grew  up  fair  and  powerful,  accomplished  in  all 
manly  exercises,  fully  up  to  the  standard  of  that  day's  accom- 
plishments of  exercise  and  arms  and  manhood — accomplished 
in  ail  gentle  virtues,  liberal  letters,  antique  lore,  and  modern 
fashions,  how  far  beyond  all  his  contemporaneous  rivals ! 
"While  his  youthful  equal,  Harry  of  Monmouth,  one  day  to 
paralyse  the  heart  of  France  by  the  fruitless  prowess,  fruitless 
carnage  of  Agincourt,  was  learning  how  to  "  turn  and  wind  his 
fiery  Pegasus,"  that  he  might  "  witch  the  world"  of  his  own  day 
with  "noble  horsemanship,"  young  James  of  Scotland  was  already 
drinking  deep  at  the  well  of  English  undefiled"  in  the  shades 
not  long  before  semi-deified  by  the  rich  chaunts  of  Chaucer, 
soon  to  be  made  immortal  by  the  wild  wood-notes  of  the  Ssvan 
of  Avon ;  had  already  tuned  his  pipe  to  those  strains  which 
shall  survive  the  memory  of  his  conquerors ;  had  already  won 
by  the  witcheries  of  his  arts,  the  graceful  gallantry  of  his  de- 
meanor, the  gentle  manners  of  his  courteous  youth,  the  heart 
of  one  who  claimed  the  style  already  of  a  right  royal  English 
lady,  one  day,  alas !  to  bear  the  thorny  crown  and  troublous 
title  of  a  right  royal  Scottish  Queen — beautiful,  high-born 
Joanna  Beaufort,  whom  he  first  saw,  first  loved,  a  captive,  from 
his  prison  casements  in  the  round  tower  of  Windsor,  while  she 
was  wandering,  fancy-free,  amid  the  verdant  slopes  and  royal 
gardens  towards  the  Little  Park  and  the  smooth  meads  of  Dat- 
chet — places  which  live,  gardens  which  glow,  and  meads  which 
bloom  to  this  day,  happy  memorials  of  the  happier  past,  lusty 
mementoes  of  the  time  when  English  life  was  lusty,  when  men 


116  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

wore  manhood  with  their  beards,  and  women  sought  no  rights 
beyond  the  rights  of  womanhood;  of  conquering  by  their  very 
inability  to  conquer,  and  governing  by  virtue  of  submission. 
And  yet  the  women  of  that  time,  unprcscient  as  they  were  in 
that  old  day  of  "  what  fantastic  tricks7'  their  sex  should  some 
time  "  play  before  high  heaven,  most  ignorant  of  what  they're 
most  assured,  their  glossy  essence,  making  the  angels  weep," 
and  all  undreaming  of  the  rights  which  they  should  one  day 
claim  through  their  unborn  posterity  in  a  yet  undiscovered 
hemisphere,  had,  notwithstanding,  a  more  clear  insight  into 
the  nature  of  their  duties,  and  a  more  infinite  capacity  to  do 
and  dare,  and,  if  need  were,  to  die,  at  duty's  bidding,  than  ever 
had  the  strongest-minded  female  of  this  nineteenth  century 
who  pants,  to  don  the  masculine  attire  and  to  achieve  manly 
laurels  in  the  field,  the  forum,  and  the  senate,  seeing  not  that 
they  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature. 

Hear  therefore  all,  especially  ye  who  burn  in  the  advocacy  of 
the  rights,  hear  a  tale  of  the  olden  time,  and  a  true  tale,  of  the 
duties — or  what  a  Scottish  maiden  took  to  be  such — of  a  true 
woman. 

It  may  seem  a  strange  tale,  it  may  seem  a  mistaken  duty  to 
those  who,  reared  in  very  different  days,  in  a  far  distant  clime, 
and  under  circumstances  most  diverse — to  those  I  say,  who  far 
from  believing  loyalty  to  be  a  duty  or  a  virtue,  can  scarcely  be 
induced  to  regard  it  as  a  principle,  or  as  a  fact  at  all ;  or  in- 
duced to  consider  it  as  other  than  the  slavish  truckling  of  a  base 
spirit,  or  the  fanatical  veneration  of  a  superstitious  spirit,  to 
something  casually  set  above  it ;  to  such  I  say,  it  may  seem  a 
strange  tale  and  a  mistaken  duty  ;  but  I,  for  one,  believe  that, 
in  her  line  and  season,  the  Lady  Catherine  Douglass  did  her 
duty,  as  she  understood  it,  and  as  it  was ;  and  did  it  well — and 
that  where  she  has  gone,  and  where  sooner  or  later  we  all  must 


THE  LADY  CATHERINE  D0UGKASS.  11 7 

follow  her,  she  hath  her  exceeding  great  reward  before  Him, 
who  if  he  has  said  that  he  hath  no  regard  for  princes  more 
than  for  other  men,  has  surely  never  said  that  he  hath  regard 
for  other  men  more  than  for  princes ;  but  bade  with  his  own 
immortal  voice,  "  Bender  unto  Caesar  the  things  which  are 
Caesar's." 

Years  had  flown — as  they  will  fly,  joyous  or  unhappy,  swift 
or  slow — on  ignoble  and  noiseless  wings,  with  their  unvarying, 
unalterable  flight,  and  the  boy  captive  had  waked  into  the  cap- 
tive man,  the  princely  bud  had  bloomed  into  the  royal  flower. 
Henry  the  Fourth,  usurping  Bolingbroke,  had  departed,  mur- 
muring with  his  last  sigh,  as  he  saw  in  the  clearsightedness  of 
coming  death,  his  son  untimely  grasping  at  the  royal  circlet, 
which  he,  himself,  had  grasped  untimely,  and  now  first  felt  to 
be  no  blessing  but  a  burden — 

"  Then  happy  low  lie  down, 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown." 

Henry  the  Fifth,  the  merry  mad  Prince  Hal,  the  Victor  of 
Agincourt,  had  departed,  and  even  in  departing  had  discovered 
that 

"There  is  no  armor  against  fate; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings  ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
"With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade." 

The  Earl  of  Bedford,  the  wise  regent,  had  succeeded  to  the 
sway  of  England,  and  so  much  of  France  as  yet  remained  sub- 
missive to  the  English  sword  and  sceptre. 

The  captive  prince  was  now,  through  Bedford's  wiser,  nobler 
policy,  the  wise,  accomplished,  and  good  king  of  the  unruly, 


118  "PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

turbulent,  and  traitorous  Scottish  barons,  of  the  tumultuous, 
unlettered,  savage  Scottish  people.  The  imprisoned  bard  of 
Windsor  was  now  the  avenging  judge  of  past  crimes  and  past 
abuses,  the  reforming  monarch  of  an  unreformed  aristocracy, 
the  prince  at  peace  with  all  foreign  powers,  but  at  the  worst  of 
wars  with  the  most  perilous  of  all  foes,  his  own  jealous  people. 

His  fate  was,  of  course,  that  of  all  first  reformers,  to  be  aban- 
doned and  misunderstood  by  those'  whom  the  reform  should 
have  profited  even  to  the  raising  them  from  brute  nature  to 
humanity — to  be  overmastered  and  destroyed  by  the  opponents 
of  all  reform. 

Deserted  by  his  parliament,  at  terms  of  defiance  with  his  bad 
barons,  misconceived  by  his  rude  people,  never,  perhaps,  had 
the  captive's  chain  been  so  galling  to  his  soul  as  was  now  the 
king's  crown — and  often  when  served  with  bended  knees,  and 
circled  by  uncovered  heads,  each  of  which,  as  he  well  knew 
plotted  daggers  ;  bearing  the  style  and  title,  but  not  the  liberty 
or  power  of  a  king — aye,  often  did  he  sigh  for  the  tuneful  days 
of  his  peaceful  prison-house,  when  his  whole  pride  was  confined 
to  his  own  heart,  his  whole  kingdom  comprised  in  the  alle- 
giance of  one  other  heart — now  as  then,  fond,  loyal,  and  his 
own — the  heart  of  bright  and  beautiful  Joanna  Beaufort. 

For  eighteen  years  he  struggled  wearily,  yet  well,  against  the 
discontents  and  disorders  which  met  him  on  every  hand,  having 
no  solace  from  his  cares  save  in  the  society  of  his  fair,  accom- 
plished wife,  and  the  ladies  of  her  court,  whom  she  had  selected 
not  merely  for  their  beauty  or  their  birth,  but  for  their  taste, 
their  literary  or  musical  talents :  and  of  whom  she  had  formed 
a  circle  which,  while  it  excited  the  rude  scorn  and  boisterous 
mockery  of  the  prince  barons  of  the  Marches,  was  to  her  unfor- 
tunate lord  the  only  brighter  phase  of  his  existence. 

That  eighteenth  year  was  marked  by  one  event  which  seemed 


THE  LADY  CATHERINE  DOUGLASS.  119 

for  a  moment  to  give  promise  of  brighter  fortunes  in  the  future, 
but  like  the  most  of  the  smiles  of  fortune,  this  also  proved  delu- 
sive, and  in  the  end  disastrous.  He  had  renewed  the  ancient 
and  time-honored  alliance  between  France  and  his  native  land, 
giving  his  daughter  Margaret  in  marriage  to  the  youthful  heir 
of  the  French  throne,  the  then  dauphin,  afterwards  Louis  the 
Eleventh,  of  evil  memory,  long-  before  whose  majority  she  had 
the  good  fortune  to  pass  into  the  peace  of  the  quiet  grave. 
With  splendid  pomp,  and  a  gorgeous  train  of  northern  knights 
and  nobles,  accompanied  moreover  by  a  powerful  body  of  life- 
guards, who,  in  after  days,  formed  the  nucleus  of  the  famous 
mercenary  bands  of  Louis — known  as  the  Scottish  archers,  long 
after  the  bow  had  become  obsolete  and  given  place  to  the 
musket — the  child-wife  and  infant  princess  set  sail  from  the  dark 
and  misty  shores  of  Caledonia  for  the  sunny  plains  of  "  la  belle 
France,"  which  she  reached  uninterrupted,  although  the  English 
fleet  put  to  sea  to  intercept  her  ;  encouraged  by  their  success  in 
her  father's  case,  to  adopt  the  same  procedure  in  her  own. 
They  failed  as  far  as  the  daughter  was  concerned ;  but  indi- 
rectly their  attempt  proved  the  destruction  of  the  hapless  king 
and  father,  whose  life  had  been  embittered  from  its  very  outset 
by  the  intolerance  and  bitterness  of  their  national  hatred. 

Exasperated  by  the  cruel  and  ungenerous  attempt,  James  set 
a  force  on  foot,  and,  declaring  war  on  England,  moved  south- 
wards to  invade  the  northern  provinces  of  Cumberland,  North- 
umberland, and  Durham,  which  were  then  to  the  ever-warring 
borderers  of  the  two  Island  kingdoms,  what  Flanders  has  been 
in  all  modern  ages  to  the  rest  of  Europe,  the  common  battle- 
field, and  as  it  were,  the  lists  open  at  all  times  to  all  comers 
with  the  trumpet  note  and  challenge-call  to  combat  a  Voutrance. 
But  such  was  the  ill-will  of  his  nobles,  curbed  in  their  violence, 
limited  in  their  covetous  ambition,  and  straitened  in  their  reve- 


120  .  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

nues  by  the  confiscation  of  their  wrongfully  alienated  crown- 
lands,  that  James  speedily  discovered  that  his  ill-regulated  army 
was  like  to  prove  more  dangerous  to  himself  than  to  his  ene- 
mies ;  and  learning  the  formation  of  conspiracies  against  his 
person,  disbanded  it  at  once,  and  suddenly  retired  to  Perth,  in 
which  his  royal  father  had  for  the  most  part  resided,  and  where 
he  had  himself  founded  a  Carthusian  Monastery — the  abbot  and 
brothers  of  which  were  his  firm,  and  perhaps  his  only  adhe- 
rents. 

It  was  a  dark  and  gusty  evening  of  February,  when  the  Court 
was  assembled  in  an  upper  chamber — one  of  a  long  connected 
suite  of  apartments  in  the  Carthusian  Monastery,  to  which  the 
unfortunate  monarch  had  retreated  in  the  hope — fruitless  hope, 
as  it  proved  to  be — of  being  permitted  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  blameless  days  in  the  pursuit  of  literary  ease  and  the  grati- 
fication of  his  gentle  social  tastes,  and,  for  that  age,  almost 
unnatural  accomplishments.  There  can,  perhaps,  be  no  greater 
misfortune  for  any  man  than  to  be  bom  either  far  behind  or  far 
in  advance  of  his  age  ;  to  be  the  former,  is  to  be  scoffed  at  as  an 
old-time  dotard,  a  mere  laudator  temporis  acti — to  be  the  latter, 
is  to  be  persecuted,  perhaps  martyred,  for  opinion's  sake,  as  a 
heretic  to  admitted  holy  doctrines,  or  a  vile  innovator  on  time- 
hallowed  usages  ;  and  if  so  to  a  private  individual,  how  much 
more  so  to  a  monarch,  untimely  set  to  govern  a  people  yet 
unripe  for  change,  and  bigoted  against  reform. 

Such  was  the  case  with  the  first  of  the  Stuarts.  Had  he  been 
in  his  own  day  the  king  of  France  or  England,  he  would  have 
still  been  a  century  in  advance  of  the  spirit  of  his  kingdom. 
Had  he  been,  two  centuries  later  in  his  own  land,  born  to  the 
throne  so  fatally  filled  by  the  last  Scottish  sovereign  of  his  race, 
incomparable,  guilty,  hapless  Mary,  he  would  have  still  found 
himself  as  unable  to  control  the  Euthvens  and  the  Lyndesays, 


THE    LADY    CATHERINE    DOUGLASS.  121 

the  Murrays  and  the  Mortons,  who  drove  her  an  exile  to  the 
false  hospitality  of  her  southron  sister-queen,  as  he  was  to  com- 
pel the  respect  and  force  the  submission  of  his  own  Atholes  and 
Grahams. 

The  barons  of  his  own  fierce  land  required  to  be  ruled  by  a 
man  as  brave  and  fierce  as  themselves,  who  should  govern  them 
with  a  sword  for  a*sceptre  ;  and  in  James  Stuart  they  had  one 
whom  they  regarded  as  a  sort  of  foreign  jongleur  ;  and  this 
weak,  frivolous,  vain,  outlandish  thing,  neither  all  woman  nor 
half  man,  attempting  to  enforce  over  them,  who  owned  no  supe- 
rior but  the  wearer  of  a  sharper  sword,  that  supremacy  which 
they  the  most  despised  and  loathed — the  supremacy  of  the 
law. 

Therefore  between  him  and  them,  as  between  the  antago- 
nistic principles  of  diverse  and  conflicting  ages,  it  was  war  for 
existence — war  d  Voutrance. 

The  chamber  in  which,  on  that  wild  gusty  night,  James  sat 
with  his  queen  and  her  ladies  in  easy  and  familiar  state, — which, 
indeed,  scarcely  could  be  called  state, — was  a  large,  low-ceiled, 
vaulted  hall,  with  huge  round  arched  and  mullioned  casements. 
Through  these  the  merry  glare  of  the  great  wood-fire,  as  it  went 
soaring  up  the  chimney  in  sheets  of  ruddy  flame  and  volumes 
of  illuminated  smoke,  mixed  with  the  lustre  of  fifty  waxen 
sconces  with  broad  silver  reflectors,  shone  out  far  into  the 
murky  night,  beaconing  to  all  the  city  that  there  the  king  held 
court.  The  other  decorations  of  that  stately  room  were  as 
superior  to  the  modes  of  the  time,  as  were  the  personal  habits 
of  its  royal  resident  to  those  of  his  contemporaneous  kings. 
Instead  of  rushes,  the  floor  was  covered  with  rich  tapestries,  the 
walls  were  draped  with  embossed  and  gilded  Moorish  leather 
from  Cordova,  and,  instead  of  arms  and  weapons,  implements  of 
the  chase,  and  trophies  of  the  battle,  were  adorned  with  works 


122  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

of  art,  such  as  art  then  was — ere  its  revival  from  the  darkness 
of  the  Middle  Ages ;  with  musical  instruments,  some  of  the 
king's  own  construction — for  in  addition  to  his  unquestioned 
merit  as  a  poet,  he  was  a  musician  and  composer  of  no  mean 
order ;  and  with  a  few  shelves  of  rare  illuminated  manuscripts. 
One  table  strewn  with  missals,  music,  rude  sketches,  and  a  few 
objects  of  what  we  should  now  call  vertu,  such  as  laerymatories, 
bronze  and  golden  ornaments,  antique  arms,  and  funeral  vases 
extracted  from  the  graves  without  the  Roman  native  camps,  or 
the  yet  more  ancient  Pictish  barrows  ;  and  another  spread  with 
the  delicacies  of  what  was  then  termed  a  rare  supper — for  the 
proper  supper,  which  was  the  principal  meal  of  the  day,  had 
taken  place  some  hours  ago — with  a  due  complement  of  the 
cumbrous-looking,  but  picturesque  settees  and  high-backed 
arm-chairs,  composed  the  furniture  of  this  most  unroyal  royal 
chamber — unroyal,  for  in  it  there  was  neither  dais  nor  canopy  ; 
neither  footstool  nor  chair  of  state ;  neither  the  treasured  fleurs- 
de-lis,  and  unicorn  of  Scotland,  nor  any  of  the  insignia  of  Cale- 
donian royalty ;  and  in  it  there  stood  neither  lords  in  waiting, 
nor  gentlemen  of  the  household ;  neither  pensioners  nor  ushers 
of  the  rod  ;  but  only  in  attendance,  by  the  board,  two  unarmed 
pages,  in  the  black  and  scarlet  liveries  of  the  realm,  ready  to 
hand  wine  or  refreshments  to  the  company. 

And  that  company — the  king  himself  clad  merely  as  a  gen- 
tleman of  birth  in  plain  black  velvet ;  a  gentleman  of  noble 
stature  and  fine  features — the  latter  marked  with  something  of 
that  melancholy  which  was  the  characteristic  of  all  his  race, 
and  especially  of  his  equally  unhappy  descendant,  the  first 
Charles  of  England,  in  whom  it  was  believed- — long  before  the 
first  shadow  gloomed  on  his  political  horizon — to  be  a  prog- 
nostic of  violent  and  early  death  ;  the  queen,  stately,  and  finely 
formed,  and  fair,  with  the  rich  complexion  and  luxuriant  sunny 


THE    LADY    CATHERINE   DOUGLASS.  123 

hair  of  England,  and  the  high,  aquiline  features,  still  lineal  in 
the  princely  family  of  the  house  of  Beaufort ;  and,  lastly,  her 
four  maids  of  honor — damsels  whose  very  names  denoted  that 
they  were  of  the  highest  blood  of  Scotland  ;  and  of  the  blood, 
from  first  to  last,  true  and  devoted  to  the  Stuart — for  there  was 
a  Seyton  and  a  Beatoun,  a  Carmichael  and  a  Douglass — but  of 
these  four,  though  all  were  young,  graceful,  and  gentle,  and  fair 
enough  each  one  to  be  the  cynosure,  we  have  to  do  only  with 
the  last;  for  she,  the  Lady  Catherine  Douglass,  differed  from 
all  the  rest,  not  only  in  the  style  and  character  of  her  beauty, 
but  in  her  demeanor ;  and,  indeed,  her  whole  aspect  on  that 
eventful  evening  was  unusual  at  least,  if  not  unbecoming  in 
such  a  presence. 

She  was  very  tall,  very  largely  formed,  and  though  delicate 
and  even  slender,  so  fully  rounded  in  her  figure  as  to  give  the 
idea  of  her  having  attained  years  far  more  mature  than  she 
indeed  had,  for  she  was  scarcely  yet  seventeen.  Her  profuse 
hair,  closely  banded  over  her  tresses,  and  falling  in  luxuriant 
masses  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  was  black  as  night,  as 
were  her  heavy,  straight  brows,  which  imparted  a  character  of 
unusual  sternness  to  features  naturally  grave  and  almost  austere. 
She  sate  apart  from  the  rest  in  an  embrasure  of  one  of  those 
high  windows,  gazing  steadfastly  towards  the  town,  and  evi- 
dently all  untouched  by  the  fine  music  and  fine  poetry  which 
were  enriching  all  the  atmosphere  around  her,  although  the 
music  and  the  words  were  both  the  composition  of  a  king — of  a 
king  beloved  and  present.  So  still  she  sate  that  the  others  had 
entirely  forgotten  her  presence,  the  rather  that  she  was  con- 
cealed from  their  view  by  a  stout  clustered  pillar  casting  a  mas- 
sive shadow  over  the  embrasure  within  which  she  had  taken 
post.  But  though  she  heeded  not  the  company,  nor  was  heeded 
by  them,  it  was  evident  that  she  was  anything  but  pensive  or 


124  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

abstracted,  for  her. face  wore  that  air  of  strange  excitement 
which  Scottish  superstition  believes  to  be  the  consequence  of  a 
preternatural  foresight,  and  which  is  commonly  known  to  that 
people  as  a  raised  look.  Her  lips  are  half  apart ;  her  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy ;  her  ear  turned  in  the  peculiar  attitude  of  listening. 
One  hand  was  pressed  upon  her  heart  as  if  it  would  repress  its 
beating ;  the  other,  as  it  hung  dow*n  by  her  side,  was  clinched 
as  tightly  as  though  it  was  closed  upon  the  dudgeon  of  a 
dagger. 

Men  said  that  Catherine  Douglass  loved  her  king  with  a  love 
that  surpassed  a  subject's  love  of  loyalty — even  as  a  later  Doug- 
lass of  the  ruder  sex  loved  the  loveliest  of  all  the  Stuarts — 
unhappy  Mary.  Had  the  strong  blood  of  Douglass  been  mated 
with  the  weak  stream  that  ran  in  the  veins  of  the  Stuarts,  it 
might,  perhaps,  in  either  case,  have  saved  its  sovereign.  As  it 
was,  in  both  cases,  the  weak  in  falling  dragged  the  stronger 
down. 

But  now  the  time  was  close  at  hand — the  hour  had  come,  and 
the  men.  And  still  the  gay  song  went  on,  and  the  rich  music 
poured  its  stream  unheard — unheard  by  those  inspired  ears  of 
Catherine,  which,  deaf  to  their  merry  minstrelsy,  were  filled 
with  sounds  they  could  not  hear,  as  were  her  eyes  alive  to  sights 
they  could  not  see. 

Without,  the  city  had  already  sunk  to  sleep,  and  no  sounds 
had  been  heard  over. the  streets  and  wynds  late  so  populous  and 
noisy  for  above  two  hours,  except  the  sad,  soft  sough  of  the 
westland  wind,  as  it  came  wailing  down  from  the  Highland 
hills  ;  and  the  dull,  monotonous  rush  of  the  flooded  Tay,  as  it 
poured  along  beneath  the  city  walls,  swollen  with  the  melting 
snows,  for  it  had  thawed  for  several  days,  and  the  river  was 
bankful ;  and  from  hour  to  hour  the  clang  of  the  convent  bell 
telling  how  the  night  rolled  away. 


THE    LADY    CATHERINE    DOUGLASS.  125 

No  guard  was  set  at  the  convent  gate  ;  only  within  the  porch 
beside  a  close-barred  picket,  under  a  blinking  lanthorn,  dozed, 
muffled  in  his  cowl,  an  old  Carthusian. 

Hard  by,  but  close  concealed  within  the  mouths  of  several 
narrow  and  filthy  wynds  or  lanes,  debouching  into  the  High 
street  of  Perth,  between  rows  of  houses  so  disproportionately 
tall  as  to  cause  their  openings  to  resemble  the  cavernous  gorges 
between  precipitous  cliffs,  rather  than  human  thoroughfares 
between  human  dwellings,  about  forty  or  fifty  powerfully  built 
men  had  been  standing  on  the  watch  motionless  for  above  two 
hours,  closely  wrapped  in  heavy  serge  cloaks,  fitted  with  capes 
projecting  far  over  their  faces,  which  they  completely  concealed 
from  view.  At  length  the  echoes  of  the  convent  bell  died  into 
silence,  after  the  twelve  stern  notes  that  tell  of  midnight,  and  as 
they  died  away,  a  faint  and  guarded  footstep,  accompanied  by 
a  muffled  clash  of  metal,  was  heard  approaching. 

u  It  is  he  at  length  ! '.'  whispered  one  of  the  watchers,  utter- 
ing a  single  low  whistle,  which  was  answered  at  once  by  two 
similar  notes,  and  followed  by  the  approach  of  a  person  simi- 
larly clad,  but  of  more  dignified  port  and  taller  stature  than  the 
others. 

"  The  time  has  come,"  he  said.  "  The  lights  are  all  out ! 
They  have  retired  this  half  hour.     Silence,  and  follow  ! " 

And  as  they  went  in  single  file,  their  feet  gave  scarce  a 
sound  on  the  rugged  pavement,  so  thickly  were  they  clothed  in 
felt,  gliding  along  through  the  dim  streets  like  fleeting  ghosts, 
in  total  silence,  unless  when  that  strange  muffled  clash  wTas 
heard,  ominous  of  evil. 

They  reached  the  convent  gate,  and  the  leader,  knocking 
very  gently,  and  wrhispering  a  countersign,  it  opened  seemingly 
automatous,  for,  when  they  entered,  the  sleeping  Carthusian 
was  no  longer  there,  and  the  blinking  lanthorn  only  kept  the 


126  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES.       ' 

wicket.  They  entered  one  by  one,  and  filed  off  silently  one  by 
one  into  the  cloistered  court,  the  leader  carrying  the  dull  lan- 
thorn  with  him,  and  the  ten  who  entered  last,  remaining  within 
the  porch  to  guard  against  interruption  from  without. 
t  The  others,  as  they  reached  the  grass-plat  in  the  centre  of 
the  cloister,  threw  off  their  mufflings,  and  stood  revealed,  a 
band  of  grim  and  grisly  warriors,  with  scar-seared  faces,  and 
many  with  grey  hair,  and  all  with  indubitable  marks  of  high 
birth  and  station  in  the  insolent  daring  of  their  aspect,  and  the 
fierce  haughtiness  of  their  bearing.  All  were  armed  cop-a-pie 
in  steel,  but  they  had  no  crests  on  their  basnets,  no  blazonings 
on  their  steel  coats,  and  they  bore  no  weapons  save — each  in 
his  right  hand — a  long  broad  dagger,  known  as  the  misericorde, 
unsheathed  and  ready  for  assassination.  The  tall,  gaunt  man 
who  led  them  still  wore  his  vizor  up,  and  the  dark  grizzled  face 
and  snow-white  hair  revealed  the  uncle  of  the  king — Walter, 
the  Earl  of  Athole.  Lowering  his  aventaille,  with  a  mute  ges- 
ture, he  led  onward,  and  all  followed  silently,  for  they  still  wore 
their  felt  shoes  over  their  mail  hose,  though  little  need  there 
seemed  for  such  precaution. 

No  human  being  met  them  in  the  cloisters,  nor  in  the  vaulted 
corridors,  nor  on  the  vast  stone  staircase — no  human  eye  looked 
down  on  them  from  the  tall  casements — no  owl  screeched  at 
the  murderers,  "  not  a  mouse  budged  "  for  all  their  dull  re- 
sounding footsteps. 

But  within  one  faithful  heart  presaged  their  coming. 

Within  her  embrasure,  still  as  a  marble  statue,  with  lips 
apart,  clinched  hand,  and  glaring,  sate  Catherine  Douglass. 

When  the  royal  company  arose  for  the  night,  she  had  not 
arisen,  and,  none  observing  her  where  she  sate  withdrawn,  all 
fancied  that  she  had  retired  before  them,  and  was  a-bed  al- 
ready. 


THE  LADY  CATHERINE  DOUGLASS.  127 

% 

The  dying  brands  glimmered  feebly  through  the  great  hall — 
the  waxen  lights  were  dead  in  the  sconces,  and  the  pale  watcher 
scarcely  seemed  less  dead  than  they. 

Hark  !  hark  !  one  by  one — one  by  one — stealthy,  ghostlike, 
only  not  silent — on  they  came,  up  the  stairs,  through  the  cor- 
ridor, those  muffled  footsteps.      They  paused. 

A  loud,  clear  voice  woke  the  night. 

"  The  king !  The  king  !  To  arms !  to  arms !  within  there, 
Brandanes,  look  to  your  bills  and  bows  I  The  traitors  are 
without !     The  doors  are  barred  !     Treason  !  fie,  treason  ! " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Catherine  Douglass — and  at  her  cry  there 
was  a  rush  from  within,  but  it  was  not  the  steelclad  rush  of  the 
trusty  Brandanes,  the  faithful  body-guard,  the  men  of  Bute 
and  Islay — only  the  rush  of  unshod  girlish  feet,  the  rustle  of 
female  garbs,  and  the  firm  stride  of  one  manly  foot — the  foot 
of  a  king  come  forth  unarmed  to  die. 

At  the  same  instant  came  a  hoarse  whisper  from  without, 
while  a  heavy  hand  pressed  the  door  inward,  as  if  expecting 
to  find  no  resistance.  "  Away !  silly  minion !  There  be  no 
Brandanes,  nor  no  bars  wherewithal  to  bar  the  gate  ! " 

"  Traitor,  thou  liest ! "  was  the  firm  reply.  "  For  I  have 
thrust  mine  arm  into  the  staples,  and  when  was  not  the  blood 
and  bone  of  a  Douglass  stronger  than  bars  of  wood  or  bolts  of 
iron  %  Fly,  my  liege,  fly — by  the  back  stairway,  and  the  pos- 
tern— McLouis  and  the  Brandanes  keep  the  river  gate  !  away  ! 
I  will  hold  them  ! " 

"  Curses  upon  thee  !  Yield,  minion  !  force  it,  Graham  ;  break 
in,  Ruthven  !  Curses  on  her  !  curses !  What  if  she  be  a 
woman,  or  what  avails  a  paltry  wench's  bones,  when  a  king's 
blood  and  a  kingdom  are  at  stake !" 

There  was  the  energetic  rush  of  ten  heavy  shoulders  of  strong 
men  against  the  oaken  door  without — within  there  was  the 


128  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

steady  and  undaunted  nerve  of  one  pale  girl  in  agony — and  for 
an  instant's  space  the  girl's  nerve  carried. 

Then  came  a  fearful,  craunching,  shivering  crash — low  but  dis- 
tinct, and  then  the  tearing  of  the  white  flesh  and  sinews, 
drowned  in  the  splintering  din  of  wood,  and  the  fierce  tramp 
of  the  armed  assassins  as  they  rushed  in  resistless. 

~No  scream  passed  her  pale  lips  in  that  extremity  of  torture 
— her  dying  eyes  swam  towards  her  king,  to  see  if  her  devotion 
had  availed  to  save  him.  But  there  he  stood,  horror-stricken, 
trammelled  by  the  clinging  arms  of  his  shrieking  queen  and 
her  maidens.  Had  he  be«n  free  he  would  have  dragged  her 
from  that  fatal,  fruitless  post;  had  he  been  armed  he  had 
avenged  her.     . 

As  it  was,  he  died  with  her ;  manfully,  as  becomes  a  man, 
in  silence — royally,  as  becomes  a  king  who  cannot  resist  effec- 
tually, unresistingly. 

Fearfully  in  after  days  did  the  assassins  rue  their  crime  in 
unheard-of  tortures.  But  what  tortures  could  expiate  the 
blood  of  that  devoted  girl,  what  price  repay  her  glorious  self- 
abandonment,  save  that  which  we  will  not  doubt  she  has 
received — 

The  Crown  of  Martyrdom  in  Heaven ! 


Margaret  of  $ttjau; 


WIFE    OF   HENRY    VI. 


1457. 


MARGARET  OF  ANJOU, 

WIFE  OF  HENRY  VI. 


There  is  a  very  general  habit  among  ordinary,  and  what 
may  be  called  everyday  readers — even  among  that  portion  of 
them  who  would  feel  themselves  greatly  aggrieved  at  being 
supposed  to  underlie  such  a  charge — of  forming  their  general 
estimate  of  events,  persons,  characters,  and  circumstances  even 
of  veracious  history,  from  the  fictitious  delineations  of  them 
found  in  the  pages  of  poets,  dramatists,  and  romancers ;  much 
pleasanter  reading  certainly,  if  less  to  be  relied  on,  than  old 
musty  black-letter  chroniclers,  or  modern  pragmatical  com- 
pilers. Not  a  few  even  of  our  historians — themselves  the  teach- 
ers, as  they  should  be,  of  less  solid  and  solemn  falsehoods — have 
too  often,  as  it  seems  to  me,  condescended  to  become  their 
pupils ;  and  have  transmitted  tales,  intended  for  the  brief  amuse- 
ment of  an  audience  wishing  to  be  pleased  for  an  hour,  as  grave 
facts  and  authorities  for  the  information  of  an  audience  desirous 
to  be  instructed  throughout  ages. 

Of  no  portion  of  history  is  this  more  true,  than  of  that  dark 
and  gloomy  period  known  as  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  which 
devastated  England  for  above  thirty  years,  during  which  twelve* 

*  Hume  II.  433.     Phillips  &  Sampson's  edition. 


132  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

pitched  battles  were  fought,  besides  skirmishes  innumerable ; 
in  which  the  lives  of  above  eighty  princes  of  the  blood-royal  were 
lost  either  in  the  field  or  on  the  scaffold ;  the  ancient  nobility 
of  England  almost  annihilated  ;  the  ancient  spirit  of  chivalry, 
with  its  redeeming  charities,  and  courtesies,  and  mercies,  and 
above  all  its  high  sense  of  honor,  utterly  eradicated  ;  and  a 
fierce,  brutal,  bloodthirsty,  and  scourgeful  party  furor — not  pal- 
liated even  by  a  loyal  adherence  to  party,  and  utterly  regard- 
less of  the  sanctity  of  oaths,  or  hospitalities,  or  ties  of  blood — 
was  for  a  long  and  hideous  lapse  of  years  ill-substituted.  Of 
this  black  page — the  blackest,  I  think,  take  it  all  for  all,  of  the 
history  of  England — there  is  but  one  point  on  which  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  reader  can  dwell  with  any  satisfaction  ;  it  is  the  ad- 
mitted truth,  that,  whereas  in  the  civil  wars  of  the  European 
continent,  it  is  the  masses,  the  peaceful  citizens  and  the  hard- 
handed  peasantry,  who  have  ever  suffered,  the  yet  bloodier  civil 
Wars  of  the  Koses  were  literally  war  to  the  castle,  peace  to  the 
cottage. 

While  eighty  princes  of  the  blood-royal  perished,  many 
slaughtered  in  epid  blood  by  noble,  nay,  but  by  kindred  hands, 
many  more  arbitrarily  doomed  to  the  scaffold  ;  while  the  old 
feudal  aristocracy  were  so  hewn  down,  root  and  branch,  that 
an  eloquent  writer*  has  asserted — a  little  extravagantly,  per- 
haps, but  still  with  some  base  whereon  to  stand — that  "  after 
the  battle  of  Bosworth,  a  pure  Norman-descended  Baron  was 
a  rarer  thing  in  England  than  a  wolf,"  few  citizens  or  peasants 
fell,  unless  in  the  chaude  meUe  to  which  they  followed  their 
favorites  or  their  lords  ;  no  military  executions  swept  away  the 
captives  by  thousands,  after  the  more  merciful  shock  of  arms 
was  past ;  no  warrant  of  high  treason  followed  the  peasant  to 

*  Benjamin  d'Israeli's  "  Coningsby." 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  133 

his  cottage,  or  the  artizan  to  his  booth.     The  "  after  carnage" 
fell  on  the  nobles  only. 

"  Society,  therefore,"  to  quote  the  words  of  the  most  recent, 
as  he  is  assuredly  the  most  eloquent,  of  English  historians,* 
"  recovered  from  the  shock  as  soon  as  the  actual  conflict  was 
over.  The  calamities  of  civil  war  were  confined  to  the  slaugh- 
ter on  the  field  of  battle,  and  to  a  few  subsequent  executions 
and  confiscations.  In  a  week  the  peasant  was  driving  his 
team,  and  the  esquire  flying  his  hawks  over  the  field  of  Towton 
or  of  Bosworth,  as  if  no  extraordinary  event  had  interrupted 
the  regular  course  of  human  life." 

"  Even  while  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  were  raging,"  he  re- 
sumes, a  few  paragraphs  later — "  our  country  appears  to  have 
been  in  a  happier  condition  than  the  neighboring  realms  during 
years  of  most  profound  peace.  Comine*  was  one  of  the  most 
enlightened  statesmen  of  his  time.  He  had  seen  all  the  richest 
and  most  civilized  parts  of  the  continent.  He  had  lived  in  the 
opulent  towns  of  Flanders,  the  Manchesters  and  Liverpools  of 
the  fifteenth  century.  He  had  visited  Florence,  recently  adorned 
by  the  magnificence  of  Lorenzo;  and  Venice,  not  yet  humbled 
by  the  confederates  of  Cambray.  This  eminent  man  delibe- 
rately pronounced  England  to  be  the  best  governed  country  of 
which  he  had  any  knowledge.  Her  constitution  he  emphati- 
cally designated  as  a  just  and  holy  thing,  which,  while  it  pro- 
tected the  people,  really  strengthened  the  hands  of  the  king 
who  respected  it.  In  no  other  country,  he  said,  were  men  so 
effectually  secured  from  wrong.  The  calamities  produced  by 
our  intestine  wars  seemed  to  him  to  be  confined  to  the  nobles 
and  the  fighting  men,  and  to  bear  no  such  traces  as  he  had  been 

*  Macaulay,  vol.  i.,  p.  27. 

f  Philip  de  Comine,  minister  of  Charles  the  Bold,  of  Burgundy — 
the  great  historian  of  the  age  of  Louis  XL 


134  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

wont  to  see  elsewhere,  of  ruined  dwellings  and  depopulated 
cities." 

Yet,  of  this  singular  and  almost  anomalous  period,  the  admi- 
ration of  contemporaneous  statesmen,  the  wonder  of  succeeding 
philosophers,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  ninety-nine  hun- 
dredths of  all  English  readers  form  their  opinions  in  accordance 
to  the  rules  in  which  it  has  pleased  the  genius,  or  perhaps — 
alas !  that  it  should  be  said  of  the  greatest  as  well  as  the  basest 
of  men — the  interest  of  Will  Shakspeare  to  paint  them. 

In  his  great  historical  plays,  by  which  he  led  captive  the 
fancies  of  the  great  of  his  own  day,  and  has  led  astray  the 
judgments  even  of  wise  men  ever  since;  Richard  the  Second, 
the  parts  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  Henry  the  Fifth,  the  parts  of 
Henry  the  Sixth,  and  Richard  the  'Third,  lie  almost  all  the 
opinions  of  almost  all  readers  of  the  present  day  concerning  the 
rights  and  wrongs,  the  virtues  and  vices,  the  sins  and  sorrows 
of  the  personages  of  that  distracted  period.  So  true  is  this, 
that  I  well  remember  being  myself  asked  by  a  lady  of  very 
superior  talents  and  various  reading,  "  How  it  was  to  be  ex- 
plained that  some  historian,  whom  she  mentioned,  and  I  have 
forgotten,  could  describe  Richard  the  Third  as  a  wise,  able, 
and  politic  king,  when  it  was  well  known  that  he  was  not  king 
more  than  a  few  days?"  She  had,  of  course,  formed  her  idea 
of  the  time  from  Shakspeare's  play,  or  rather  from  Col  ley 
Gibber's  version  of  it — for  Will  himself  does  not  quite  so  much 
hurry  the  action — in  which  Richard  is  Duke  of  Gloucester  in 
the  first  act,  King  in  the  second,  and  slain  by  the  young  and 
gallant  Harry  of  Richmond  in  the  fifth  act ;  the  latter  person- 
age, by  the  way,  whom  it  suited  the  poet  to  magnify,  being 
one  of  the  coldest-blooded,  meanest,  and  most  cruel  tyrants — 
one  of  the  most  arbitrary  and  deliberate  enemies  of  the  English 
constitution,  and  one  of  the  most  odious  men,  both  in  public 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  135 

and  private  life,  that  ever  disgraced  a  throne.  The  bloated  and 
bloodthirsty  monster,  the  wife-murderer,  who  succeeded  him, 
was  less  detestable  than  he,  for  his  vices  were  those  of  a  bad 
man — the  other's  those  of  a  villanous  machine ;  the  crimes  of 
the  second  tyrant  were  the  effects  of  hot-blood  and  boiling  pas- 
sion, while  those  of  his  father  were  the  offspring  of  cold  malice 
and  deliberate  calculation.  * 

In  no  case,  it  is  clear  from  the  very  nature  of  his  vocation, 
can  the  dramatist  or  the  romancer  be  a  safe  exponent,  or  be 
received  as  a  true  authority  of  historic  questions.  Effect  is  his 
object,  not  truth — contrast  the  points  at  which  he  aims,  not 
congruities.  If  he  find  contrasts  and  effects,  it  is  the  privilege 
of  his  caste,  perhaps  it  is  his  duty  as  a  craftsman,  to  strengthen 
the  latter  by  exaggerating  the  former.  If  the  true  tale  of  the 
courts  which  he  has  chosen  whereon  to  build  the  lofty  rhyme,  as 
otherwise  well  adapted  to  his  purpose,  lack  these  effects  and 
contrast,  why  then,  at  the  expense  of  historical  truth,  he  must 
create  them — and  why  not  ?  He  offers  to  amuse  you  as  a  poet, 
never  probably  dreaming  that  you  are  so  mad  as  to  quote  him 
into  an  historical  authority.  His  object  is  to  stir  your  feelings 
to  the  pitch  of  action,  to  make  you  burn  with  anger,  melt  with 
tears,  tremble  with  visionary  terrors ;  he  cares  not  whether  his 
portrait  is  to  the  life  or  no,  so  that  your  sympathies  declare  it 
to  be  life-like ;  it  matters  not  to  him  whether  his  censure 
blacken  the  ermine's  purity  or  his  praise  purify  the  murderer's 
crimson ;  and  wherefore  should  it?  or  "  what  is  Hecuba  to  him, 
or  he  to  Hecuba,"  that  he  should  lose  your  approbation  for  her 
honor  ? 

This  is  good  cause  why  any  avowed  writer  of  entertaining 
fiction  should  be  regarded  as  an  insecure  base  whereon  to  found 
an  opinion  of  true  character.  Historians,  whose  privilege  ex- 
empts them  not  from  the  closest  adherence  to  the  literal  fact, 


136  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

misled  by  personal  partiality  and  factious  partisanship,  err  oft 
enough,  heaven  knows,  in  this  particular,  and  become  guides 
so  blind,  that  we  have  no  occasion  to  seek  for  pilots  through 
the  Cimmerian  darkness  of  darkest  historic  regions  among  those, 
who  as  being  human  are  equally  liable  to  go  astray  through 
faction  or  favor,  and  who  have  never  bound  themselves  to 
accuracy  or  adherence  to  the  letter  of  the  truth.  But  why  the 
authority  of  the  great,  the  immortal  poet  of  England,  who 
most  of  all  his  tuneful  brethren  was  Saxon  English  to  the  core, 
is  to  be  viewed  with  suspicion  and  distrust  as  concerns  facts  of 
history,  during  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  more  especially^  is  that 
all  his  personal  prejudices  leaned  to  the  Lancastrian  side ;  that 
all  his  principal  patrons,  most  of  all  the  man-minded  Elizabeth, 
was  a  genuine  Tudor,  and  though  in  the  female  line  descended 
from  the  house  of  York,  held  and  claimed  her  crown  always  as 
the  heiress  of  her  grandfather — Henry  VIL,  of  Lancaster. 

By  vastly  the  greater  proportion  of  all  English  readers,  who 
have  not  troubled  themselves  to*  look  into  dry  genealogical 
details,  and  who  perchance  regard  heraldry  as  a  mere  jargon, 
it  is  supposed  to  this  day,  through  the  enormous  influence  of 
Shakspeare's  wondrous  dramas — of  which  influence  the  preva- 
lence of  this  error  is  not  perhaps  the'least  evident  proof — that  the 
house  of  Lancaster  was  in  the  true  line  of  the  Royal  succession, 
and  that  the  house  of  York  were  daring  and  intrusive  usurpers. 

I  do  not  intend  to  charge  the  great  poet  with  intentionally 
originating  this  falsehood ;  for  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
historians  and  chroniclers — such  as  they  were  at  that  day — 
began,  so  soon  as  Henry  VIL  had  secured  the  crown  upon  his 
head,  and  Henry  VIII.  all  but  added  to  it  the  Papal  tiara,  to 
conciliate  the  favor  of  the  arbitrary  and  grasping  Tudors,  by 
strengthening  the  claims  of  the  usurping  house  of  Lancaster 
and  depreciating  those  of  the  rightful  heir  of  York. 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  137 

How  easy  a  thing  it  is  to  falsify  history  by  personal  favor 
and  factious  partisanship ;  and  how  difficult  a  thing  it  is,  when 
it  has  once  been  falsified,  to  unravel  the  tangled  yarns  of  truth 
and  falsehood,  how  almost  hopeless  to  arrive  at  the  right,  we 
need  not  go  far  to  discover — not  farther  than  to  the  history  of 
these  United  States,  and  that  of  the  last  half  century,  within 
the  personal  memory  of  many  men  now  living — for  it  is  yet  a 
mooted  question,  and  probably  never  now  can  be  satisfactorily 
answered,  whether  or  no  a  general  of  high  command  was  a 
traitor,  a  commodore  in  a  celebrated  naval  victory  a  coward  ; 
and  if  it  be  so  easy  a  thing  for  partisan  pens  to  cloud  the  truth 
of  actions  so  recent,  as  to  make  it  undiscoverable — how  arduous 
must  it  not  be  to  follow  the  clue  of  history  through  the  devious 
winding  of  ignorance,  of  sophistry,  of  prejudice,  of  intentional 
falsehood  to  the  right  end,  when  that  end  is  centuries  distant ! 

In  this  case,  happily,  the  truth-  lies  in  a  nutshell,  and  de- 
pends on  facts  of  genealogical  descent,  so  plain  and  potent,  that 
we  need  not  dive  deep  into  the  mysteries  of  heraldic  science  to 
develop  it. 

Richard  II.,  who  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  England  in  1377, 
was  the  only  son  and  heir  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  the 
eldest  son  of  Edward  III. ;  he  survived  his  father,  and  ascended 
the  throne  at  the  decease  of  his  grandfather,  being  then  only 
eleven  years  of  age ;  and  though  in  his  early  youth,  while  yet  a 
minor,  he  displayed  both  energy  and  courage,  as  he  advanced  in 
years,  he  proved  himself  the  weakest,  most  imbecile,  and  favorite- 
led  of  English  princes,  with  scarcely  the  exceptions  of  his  hapless 
great-grandfather,  Edward  II.,  and  yet  more  hapless  successor, 
the  sixth  Henry3  with  whose  reign  we  have  to  do. 

It  is  very  usual  to  hear  much  pity  wasted  upon  weak  princes, 
and  it  is  a  favorite  subject  of  declamation  with  historians,  to 
lament  over  the  private  virtues  of  the  victim  of  his  own  imbe- 

7* 


138  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

cility,  and  to  wonder  at  nations  rebelling  against  good-natured 
idiots,  which  had  remained  tranquilly  loyal  under  the  rule  of 
capable  despots.  The  truth  is,  that,  for  the  most  part,  nations 
suffer  more  under  weak  princes — themselves  subservient  to  a 
host  of  insolent,  voracious,  and  ambitious  favorites,  each  and  all  of 
whom  oppress  the  masses — tr?an  under  one  despot  who  oppresses 
them  himself,  but  who  allows  none  to  oppress  them  but  himself 
— on  the  principle  that  one  bad  master  is  better  than  a  thousand  ; 
and  so  it  was  proved  with  Richard.  For,  during  his  incapable 
and  unfortunate  reign,  he  so  completely  lost  all  hold  on  any 
party  that,  when  he  disappeared,  no  one  cared  to  inquire  whe- 
ther it  was  by  actual  violence,  or  by  the  natural  termination  of 
imprisoned  misery.  The  Duke  of  Lancaster,  better  known  to  the 
general  reader  as  Harry  of  Bolingbroke,  usurped  the  throne,  with 
the  consent,  indeed,  of  Parliament,  and  amid  the  rejoicings  of  all 
parties ;  and  the  unhappy  Richard  was  committed  to  close  custody 
in  Pomfret  Castle,  where  he  soon  died,  not  without  suspicion  of 
being  murdered  by  Sir  Piers  Exton,  who  had  him  in  charge.  This 
Harry  Bolingbroke,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  was  son  to  the  last  Duke 
of  Lancaster,  third  brother  of  Edward  III.,  by  Catherine  Swine- 
ford,  the  daughter  of  a  private  knight  of  Hainault.  He  assumed 
the  crown,  in  1399,  under  the  title  of  Henry  IV.,  and  held  it 
successfully  and  firmly,  though  with  the  strong  hand  always — 
a  manifest  and  double  usurper ;  since,  even  supposing  the  forced 
resignation  of  Richard  to  be  valid,  the  true  title  to  the  throne, 
vacant  by  his  demise,  was  in  the  house  of  Mortimer,  represented 
by  the  Earl  of  March,  son  of  the  daughter  of  Lionel,  Duke  of 
Clarence,  second  son  of  Edward  III.,  and  Edward  Mortimer,  the 
Earl,  preceding  him.  This  is  the  point  on  which  the  whole  case 
turns,  as  in  this  the  primogeniture  of  the  house  of  Lancaster 
breaks  down,  and  ultimately,  as  I  shall  presently  show,  the  true 
title  was  vested  in  the  house  of  York. 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  139 

Although  tliis  may  seem  a  little  dry  and  tedious,  I  will  pro- 
mise that  it  shall  be  brief,  and  I  would  beg  even  the  most  im- 
patient of  my  readers  to  bear#with  me  yet  a  little  further,  as  a 
few  more  words  will  put  them  au  fait  to  the  solution  of  a 
very  knotty  question,  at  which  to  get,  through  the  regular 
channels  of  legitimate  history,  they  would  have  to  wade  through 
many  a  weary  chapter,  and  then  among  the  multiplicity  of 
Philippas,  Isabellas,  and  Margarets — they  had  very  pretty  names 
it  must  be  admitted — and  of  ever  recurring  Dukes  of  Clarence, 
York,  Lancaster,  and  Gloucester,  reign  after  reign ;  and  genera- 
tion after  generation,  will,  ten  to  one,  overlook  the  gist  of  the 
question  when  they  come  at  it. 

This  usurping  Henry  IV.,  as  I  have  said,  held  his  crown  so 
long  as  he  lived,  and  transmitted  his  title,  disputed  during  his 
life,  to  be  yet  more  fiercely  disputed  after  his  death,  to  his  son, 
Henry  V.,  one  of  the  brightest  supporters  of  the  English  crown, 
dying  a  natural  death  in  1413,  as  unpopular  at  his  demise  as 
he  had  been  popular  at  his  accession.  In  that  year  Henry  V. 
succeeded,  and  though  disputes  were  raised  in  behalf  of  the 
Earl  of  March,  by  an  admixture  of  mercy  tempering  the  severity 
of  law,  he  suppressed  all  conspiracies,  spread  the  glories  of 
English  arms  far  beyond  the  seas,  and  died  the  last  great 
foreign  conqueror,  and  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  English 
kings,  in  1422. 

To  him  succeeded,  at  the  age  of  nine  months,  his  only  son,  by 
Catherine  of  France,  under  the  title  of  Henry  YL,  and,  with  his 
crown,  inherited  the  false  and  disputed  title,  without  the  strong 
heart  or  the  strong  hand  which  can  out  of  might  make  right. 

During  his  long  minority,  and  the  *  protectorate  of  the  able 
and  upright  Dukes  of  Bedford  and  Gloucester,  his  uncles,  no 
claims  were  laid  to  his  crown.  Yet  even  his  minority  was  un- 
fortunate ;  for  the  loss  of  all  the  French  provinces,  one  by  one 


140  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

— nearly  all  of  which,  including  the  capital,  were  held  by  the 
English  at  his  accession  heated  the  mind  of  the  public  against 
him,  and  tended  in  some  degree*  to  his  subsequent  disasters. 
A  short  time  before  he  attained  to  his  majority,  the  great  and 
good  Duke  of  Bedford  died  at  Eouen  ;  and  the  unfortunate  dis- 
sensions which  existed  between  the  Cardinal  Winchester  and 
the  Duke  of  Gloucester  excluded  that  honorable  prince  from  the 
councils  of  the  young  king,  who,  as  he  arrived  at  years  of  man- 
hood, showed  an  imbecility  of  character,  a  want  of  parts,  a  silly, 
weak  good-nature,  and  a  willingness  to  be  guided,  not  inferior 
to  that  which  had.  discrowned  Richard  II.,  and  set  his  own 
house  on  the  throne,  though  his  character  was  not  disgraced  by 
the  love  of  low  society  and  vulgar  debauchery,  which  belonged 
to  that  most  unprincely  of  princes. 

On  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  a  man,  with  whom, 
henceforth,  we  shall  have  much  to  do,  was  appointed  Regent  of 
France  in  his  stead — Richard,  Duke  of  York,  namely — destined 
thereafter  to  be  his  rival  for  the  crown.  This  Richard  was  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Cambridge,  who  was  second  son  of  the  old  Duke 
of  York,  fourth  son  of  Edward  III.  His  mother  was  sister  to 
the  last  Earl  of  March,  who  died  without  issue  during  the  late 
reign,  and  therefore  great  grand-daughter  of  Lionel,  Duke  of 
Clarence,  second  son  of  Edward  III.  The  death  of  the  Earl  of 
Cambridge's  elder  brother  without  issue,  left  Richard  Duke  of 
York.  He  was  therefore,  on  his  father's  side,  heir  to  the  fourth, 
and  on  his  mother's,  to  the  second  son  of  Edward  the  Third. 
The  house  of  the  eldest  son,  the  Black  Prince,  was  extinct  with 
Richard  II.,  and  that  of  the  third,  the  usurping  house  of  Lancas- 
ter, held  the  throne  to  the  prejudice  of  the  true  heirs. 

This  Duke  of  York,  however,  though  a  man  of  parts,  charac- 
ter, integrity,  and  courage,  was  mild,  kind-tempered,  and  cau- 
tious ;  and  it  is  little  likely  that  he  would  ever  have  disturbed 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  141 

the  succession  by  any  claims,  had  he  not  been  unwisely  forced 
from  inaction  into  arms. 

Shortly  after  Henry's  accession,  his  ministers — or  governors, 
as  they  might  be  called  more  justly — the  Dukes  of  Somerset, 
Suffolk,  and  Buckingham,  negotiated  his  marriage  with  Mar- 
garet of  Anjou,  the  daughter  of  Rene,  King  of  Provence,  and 
titular  king  of  Sicily,  Naples,  and  Jerusalem,  and  Count  of  An- 
jou, of  all  which  splendid  titles  he  possessed  the  barren  honor 
only,  with  scarce  the  land  or  revenue  of  an  English  baron.  The 
lady  herself,  however,  was  the  loveliest  of  her  day,  and,  both  in 
mind  and  body,  the  most  accomplished  in  all  Christendom.  She 
had  a  high,  courageous  spirit,  an  enterprising  temper,  a  solid 
understanding,  and  vivacious  talents.  In  all  respects,  she  was 
one  of  whom,  says  Hume,  who  does  not  on  the  whole  write 
favorably  of  her — "  it  was  reasonable  to  expect  that,  when  she 
should  mount  the  throne,  these" — her  great  talents — "  would 
break  out  with  still  superior  lustre."  In  all  respects,  she  was 
one  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a  husband  lacking  the  energies 
alike  and  the  capacities  of  a  man,  without  the  wit  to  conciliate 
and  the  will  to  control  his  people.  In  circumstances,  as  in 
character,  she  was  not  unlike  the  unhappy  wife  of  the  sixteenth 
Louis  of  France,  although  she  lacked  her  more  feminine  virtues 
and  her  gentler  graces.  In  devotion  to  a  drivelling,  dotard 
husband ;  in  maternal  affection,  maternal  courage,  she  was  sur- 
passed by  no  one.  Both  foreigners  in  the  countries  they  were 
destined  to  rule,  both  hated  by  their  people  for  being  foreigners, 
both  linked  unequally  to  drivelling  dastards,  both  strove,  ac- 
cording to  their  natures  and  the  ages  in  which  they  lived,  for 
the  rights  of  their  lords,  and  the  inheritance  of  their  children. 
It  were  no  mean  praise  to  say  of  Margaret  of  Anjou,  as  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  say,  and  as  I  hope  to  establish,  that  she  was  a 


142  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

ruder  Marie  Antoinette  of  a  ruder  age,  though  not  of  a  more 
sanguinary  epoch  or  a  more  cruel  country. 

It  happened,  unfortunately  for* Margaret,  that  by  the  treaties 
of  her  marriage,  negotiated,  as  I  have  said,  by  the  Dukes  of 
Suffolk  and  Somerset,  the  remote  province  of  Maine,  lately 
conquered  by  the  English  arms  from  the  French  crown,  had 
been  ceded  to  her  uncle  Charles  of  Anjou,  though  she  brought 
herself  no  dowry  to  the  king,  her  husband.  Still  more  un- 
happily it  fell  out  that  in  carrying  out  this  cession  a  fresh  strife 
arose  ;  a  war  broke  out  between  the  two  countries,  in  the  course 
of  which  all  the  French  provinces,  having  been  attached  to  the 
English  crown  since  the  reign  of  Henry  II.,  were  lost  to  Eng- 
land for  ever,  and  attached  to  the  French  crown.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  loss  of  these  provinces  was  a  real  gain  to 
England ;  but  at  that  day  politics  was  a  science  not  sufficiently 
advanced  to  permit  even  the  wisest  statesman  to  discern  this 
truth,  and  the  popular  pride  in  England  was  attached,  in  those 
days,  to  the  maintenance  of  the  French  conquests,  just  as  it  is 
nowadays  to  that  of  Malta  and  Gibraltar ;  and  as  the  popular 
fury  would  fall  hot  and  heavy  on  the  administration  which 
should  surrender  or  lose  those  costly  fortalices  of  the  national 
vanity,  so  fell  it  then  on  the  surrenderee  of  Maine,  the  losers 
of  Guienne  and  Normandy,  and  all  foothold  on  the  soil  of 
France.  It  was  an  unhappy  thing  again  for  Margaret,  that  the 
good  Duke  of  Gloucester  should  have  been  opposed  to  her 
marriage  with  the  king,  and  that  he  should  thus  have  been 
brought  into  more  active  enmity  with  the  Dukes  of  Suffolk 
and  Somerset,  since  as  a  woman,  owing  her  elevation  in  some 
sort  to  Suffolk,  whom  she  had  personally  kept  abroad  before  her 
accession,  and  as  a  woman  piqued  by  the  Duke  of  Gloucester's 
preference  for  another  woman  to  be  his  cousin's  bride,  she  was 
naturally  more  deeply  engaged   on  the  side  of  the  bad,  ambi- 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  143 

tious  men  whom  she  found  her  weak  husband's  ministers,  or 
rulers  rather,  and  friends,  whom  she  found  in  some  sort  the 
masters  of  her  own  destiny ;  and  whom,  by  every  motive  of  gra- 
titude, judgment,  and  interest,  she  was  bound  to  regard  her 
friends  until  she  should  find  them  otherwise.  For  the  same 
causes  it  is  natural  that  she  should  have  regarded  the  good  Duke 
of  Gloucester  as  her  enemy ;  and  that  she  should  have  been 
easily  led  to  believe,  what  was  of  course  daily  dinned  into  her 
ears  by  the  ministers  in  power,  that  he  was  a  traitor,  secretly 
conspiring  the  death  of  the  king,  and  aiming  at  the  succession 
of  the  crown. 

On  this  point  I  have  been  somewhat  diffuse,  because  on  it 
have  been  founded  the  only  serious  charges  that  ever  have  been 
brought  against  this  high-spirited  and  unhappy  princess,  whom 
the  Yorkish  writers  naturally  calumniated,  as  an  enemy  danger- 
ous even  when  conquered,  and  whom  in  after  days  the  Lan- 
castrians cared  not  to  defend,  because  she  was  loaded  with  po- 
pular odium,  as  a  detested  foreigner — it  seems  characteristic,  by 
the  way,  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  blood  in  all  times  and  places,  the 
fifteenth  and  the  nineteenth  centuries,  England  and  the  United 
States,  to  detest  and  calumniate  all  foreigners,  unless  they  are 
patriot  men  or  singing  women — considering  it  well  enough  to 
have  a  French  scapegoat  for  the  crimes  of  their  party,  when 
they  had  criminals  enough  of  their  own  to  defend. 

Gloucester  was  committed  to  the  Tower  on  false  charges  of 
treason,  and  a  few  days  afterwards  was  found  murdered  in  his 
bed,  while  under  the  ward  of  his  uncle  the  Cardinal,  and  the 
Duke  of  Suffolk.  The  fine  lines  of  Shakspeare  will  here 
readily  occur  to  all — 

Who  finds  the  partridge  in  the  puttock's  nest 
But  may  imagine  how  the  bird  was  dead, 
Although  the  hawk  soar  with  unblooded  beak ; 


144  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  doubtless  the  popular  voice  rightly  affixed  the  guilt  to 
these  two  noblemen,  neither  of  whom  long  survived  him,  and 
one  of  whom,  his  uncle,  is  said  to  have  died  in  the  agonies 
of  a  guilty  conscience.  But  I  must  protest  against  such  reason- 
ing, or  sophistry  rather,  as  the  following  of  Hume's,  for  which 
I  am  bold  to  assert,  as  he  indeed  almost  admits,  there  is  not  a 
shadow  of  ground  for  suspicion,  except  the  scene  in  Shak- 
speare,  from  which  I  have  quoted  above,  and  in  which,  to 
heighten  the  effect,  he  has  introduced  Margaret  assisting  and 
sustaining  Suffolk.  "  What  share  the  queen  had  in  this  guilt,'' 
says  this  great,  though  most  partial  historian,  "  is  uncertain  ; 
her  usual  activity  and  spirit  made  the  public  conclude,  with 
some  reason,  that  the  duke's  enemies  durst  not  have  ventured 
on  such  a  deed  without  her  privity.  But  there  happened,  soon 
after,  an  event  of  which  she  and  her  favorite,  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk,  bore  incontestably  the  whole  odium."  The  event 
alluded  to  is  the  cession  of  Maine,  and  the  loss  of  other  pro- 
vinces consequent  on  it.  A  few  words  in  the  above  I  have  ita- 
licised, wishing  to  show  how  easily  a  writer  may  convey  truth 
by  the  letter,  and  falsehood  by  the  meaning,  and  show  how 
easy  to  destroy  a  reputation  by  calumny,  maintaining  a  show 
of  candor.  Is  uncertain,  says  Hume  ;  and  in  one  sense  it  is 
uncertain,  for  there  is  not  even  an  iota  of  pretended  evidence, 
or  even  suspicion  against  her.  If  it  be  uncertain  whether  a 
person  is  guilty  until  he  shall  be  proved  innocent,  few  of  us,  it 
is  to  be  feared,  shall  go  unwhipped  of  justice.  With  some 
reason  ;  the  reason  seems  to  be  that,  because  she  was  active  and 
spirited,  she  therefore  was  likely  to  have  committed  a  cold- 
blooded, cowardly  murder.  But  the  truth  is,  that  to  grant  the 
spirit  and  activity,  at  that  date,  is  to  beg  the  question  ;  at  this 
period  she  had  displayed  neither ;  they  grew  with  the  growth 
of  subsequent  events.     Hitherto  it  appears  that  she,  the  king, 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  145 

and  country,  were  equally  under  the  absolute  control  of  the 
triumvirate — Somerset,  Winchester,  and  Suffolk.  By  the  words 
her  favorite,  the  historian  basely  insinuates  what  he  dare  not 
assert,  and  he  can  show  no  possible  suspicion  of  such  a  ground 
for  calumny,  that  Margaret  was  an  untrue  wife  of  Henry  ;  an 
accusation,  it  needs  not  to  say,  which  every  action,  every  hour 
of  her  life — full  of  devotion  to  himself  while  living,  to  his  me- 
mory when  dead — brand  with  the  living  lie.  The  odium  of  the 
loss  of  the  French  provinces  she  bore  incontestably.  True,  grave 
historian  !  most  incontestably  she  did  bear  it.  But  read  as  thou 
didst  mean  it  to  be  read  while  writing  it,  this  passage  means, 
and  is  understood  by  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  who  do  read 
it,  as  meaning  deserved  to  bear  it.  She  was  a  beautiful,  young, 
admired  girl,  living  with  an  old  doting  father,  who  kept  up  a 
court  literally  of  mountebanks  and  fiddlers,  held  cours  plenieres 
des  amours,  and  fancied  himself  a  troubadour ;  and  there  is  no 
more  likelihood  that  she  should  have  ever  known  the  articles 
of  the  secret  treaty  made  between  her  uncle,  Charles  of  Anjou, 
and  the  ambassador  plenipotentiary  of  a  foreign  prince,  con- 
cerning a  matter  which  in  no  earthly  way  concerned  her,  than 
that  the  daughter  of  an  English  nobleman  of  the  present  day 
should  know  or  care  anything  about  the  articles  of  her  own 
marriage  settlement,  beyond  the  amount  of  her  pin  money,  and 
the  magnificence  of  her  trousseau. 

If  it  mean  anything,  this  charge  would  go  to  imply — like  the 
mad  howl  raised  by  the  brute  terrorists  and  insane  canaille  of 
Paris  against  the  Austrian  Marie  Antoinette — that  it  was  her 
object  to  dismantle  England  for  the  benefit  of  her  native  coun- 
try, and  to  stamp  upon  her,  what  was  then  in  her  adopted 
country  held  a  stigma,  the  name  of  Frenchwoman.  But  let  it 
go  for  what  it  is  worth,  I  have  noted  it  more  to  show  how 
history  is  written,  and  to  let  my  readers  judge  how  it  ought  to 


146  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

be  written,  than  because  I  consider  her  character  in  this  point 
of  view  as  requiring  justification  or  defence.  If  Mr.  Hume 
meant  to  say  that  Margaret  was  privy  to  the  murder  of  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  it  was  his  duty  as  an  historian  to  declare 
her  aloud  a  murderess ;  if  he  meant  to  assert  that  she  was  Suf- 
folk's paramour,  it  was  his  duty  as  a  man  to  hold  her  up  as  an 
object  of  abhorrence  to  all  pure  and  virtuous  women  ;  if  he 
was  prepared  to  show  that  she  merited  the  odium  which  fell  on 
her  for  traitorously  surrendering  the  Anglo-Gallican  provinces, 
it  was  his  duty  as  a  patriot  to  pronounce  her  a  traitress.  But, 
as  he  dared  not  say  that  there  was  a  shadow  of  reasonable 
suspicion  against  her  on  any  of  the  three  points,  he  had  no 
right  to  insinuate,  and  by  fair  words  produce  false  impressions. 
If  it  be  an  author's  duty  "  naught  to  extenuate,  ndr  aught  set 
down  in  malice,"  it  is  certainly  one  of  his  blackest  sins  to  set  . 
down  the  truth  so  as  to  make  it  convey  a  monstrous  and  mali- 
cious lie. 

Now  it  was  barely  two  years  after  this,  Winchester  being 
dead,  and  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  the  last  Regent  of  France, 
now  deprived  of  his  occupation,  was  beginning  to  stir  in  Eng- 
land, that  at  the  time  when  Hume  himself  admits  that  "  the 
people  considered  Margaret  as  a  Frenchwoman,  and  a  latent 
enemy  of  the  kingdom,"  the  House  of  Commons  impeached 
Suffolk,  and  accused  him  of  high  treason,  on  some  score  of  false 
and  absurd  charges,  one  of  which  was  that  "  he  had  persuaded 
the  French  king  to  invade  England  with  an  armed  force,  in 
order  to  depose  the  king."  Is  is  needless  to  say  that  no  such 
invasion  was  ever  contemplated,  and  that  even  Margaret  was 
herself  fighting  for  her  husband's  crown,  and  actually  setting 
squadrons  in  the  field ;  she  either  never  attempted,  or  never 
was  able  to  effect,  a  French  co-operation  landing.  It  is  also 
curious  that  when  the  Commons  abandoned  their  false  charges 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  147 

of  treason,  and  accused  Suffolk  of  misdemeanors  only,  the  king 
himself,  before  the  peers  and  commons,  pronounced  sentence  of 
banishment  against  Suffolk,  a  sentence  which  Margaret  could 
incontestable/  have  prevented,  had  she  chosen,  and  must  have 
chosen  to  prevent  had  she  loved  him,  for  whatever  she  could  do 
with  the  wily  Beaufort,  the  able  Somerset,  and  the  shrewd  Suf- 
folk, she  certainly  could  wind  the  weak  Henry  to  her  will, 
though  she  did  so  only,  so  far  as  history  shows,  for  his  own 
good. 

Suffolk  was  banished,  however,  without  the  queen's  moving 
in  his  favor ;  and  as  he  went  to  France  for  refuge,  u  a  captain 
of  a  vessel  was  there  employed  to  intercept  him  in  his  passage ; 
he  was  seized  near  Dover,  his  head  struck  off  on  the  side  of  a 
long  boat,  and  his  body  thrown  into  the  sea.  No  inquiry  was 
made  after  the  actors  and  accomplices  in  this  atrocious  deed  of 
violence.'"  An  admission  which  does  not  go  far  to  inculpate 
Margaret,  as  she  incontestably  had  frequently  thereafter  the 
power  both  to  inquire  after  and  to  punish  both  actors  and  ac- 
complices, had  she  cared  to  do  so  ;  and  the  weakest  point  of 
her  character  was  that  she  was  not  one  wont  to  let  vengeance 
sleep,  when  the  power  was  in  her  hand  to  avenge. 

At  a  later  period  than  this,  in  1551,  further  machinations 
took  place  for  the  overthrow  of  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  and 
after  the  rebellion  of  Cade,  which  all  men  judged  to  have  been 
instigated  by  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  he  himself  took  up  arms 
and  marched  to  London  ;  but  finding  the  gates  shut  against  him, 
he  fell  back,  disbanded  his  army,  and  retired  to  Wigmore,  where 
no  attempt  was  made  by  the  queen,  or  her  friends,  to  avenge 
the  wrongs  of  Suffolk,  or  to  punish  her  enemy  York.  It  is 
certain  that  the  true  hereditary  right  to  the  crown  of  England 
was  not  in  Henry  VI.,  and  that  it  was  in  Richard,  Duke  of 
York.   Still  Henry  was  not  himself  an  usurper ;  he  had  inherit- 


14$  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

ed  his  crown,  after  two  continuous,  prosperous,  and  uninter- 
rupted reigns,  from  his  grandfather,  to  whose  accession  the 
parliament  of  England  had  assented.  It  is  true,  again,  that  not 
only  Richard  of  York,  the  true  heir  to  the  throne,  but  that 
Henry  was  as  incapable,  weak,  and  as  unfit  to  govern  as  the 
unhappy  Richard,  whom  his  own  ancestor,  Harry  of  Boling- 
broke,  had  dethroned  and  succeeded  ;  and  that,  of  consequence, 
the  same  right  of  revolution — if  one  may  coin  such  a  right — 
which  justified  Harry  of  Bolingbroke  in  discrowning,  and  the 
Parliament  in  superseding  the  imbecile  Richard  II.,  would 
justify  Richard  of  York  in  dethroning,  and  the  Parliament  in 
deposing  the  no  less  imbecile  Henry  VI. 

Still  a  king  de  facto  can  never  be  to  blame  for  defending  the 
crown  which  he  has  in  possession,  especially  if  that  possession 
came  to  him  in  regular  line  of  succession.  This  is  a  maxim 
which  in  the  worst  times,  save  the  Wars  only  of  the  Roses,  is  of 
universal  application ;  nor  can  his  adherents  be  held  guilty  of 
treason  for  succoring  or  maintaining  him. 

Margaret  was  called  to  the  English  throne  by  competent 
authorities,  was  acknowledged  queen  by  the  parliament,  received 
as  queen  by  the  people,  and  she  had  every  right,  nay,  it  was 
her  special  duty,  to  defend  in  every  way  befitting  her,  the  king- 
dom of  her  husband,  of  herself,  and  their  posterity.  That  age 
deemed  the  direct  appeal  to  arms,  a  course  befitting  woman. 
And  ill-mated  as  she  was,  to  a  womanish  lord,  she  appealed  to 
them,  and  used  them  manfully,  if  in  vain.  The  narrative  of 
her  personal  adventures  is  full  of  interest  and  excitement. 
She  was  a  great,  high-hearted,  brave,  and  noble  woman ;  if  she 
was  something  masculine  and  unsparing,  it  was  an  age  that 
needed  manhood,  and  there  was  no  man  on  the  throne  but  she  ; 
it  was  an  age  of  ruthlessness  and  vengeance,  and  she  had  great 
wrongs  to  avenge.     Her  bravery  in  peril,  her  constancy  in  the 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  149 

midst  of  ruin  were  gorgeous.  Let  peace  preachers  say  as  they 
may,  Margaret  of  Anjou  will  be  held,  and  in  old  Roman  phrase 
jure  habeatur,  one  of  the  heroines  of  England. 

Thus  far  we  have  considered  the  life  and  character  of 
this  great-minded  and  heroical  woman,  rather  in  a  general  than 
in  a  particular  light,  and  with  a  view  rather  to  elucidating  the 
questions  of  that  disputed  right  of  succession  to  the  English 
throne,  on  which  the  bloody  struggle  of  the  Roses  was  founded, 
and  of  the  accusations  brought  against  her  by  her  enemies, 
than  of  entering  at  large  into  her  great  energies,  wonderful 
perseverance,  and  eminent  manly  virtues — the  virtues,  by  the 
way,  which  were  most  requisite  to  her  in  the  stormy  times 
among  which  her  lot  was  cast.  We  now  come  to  the  period  at 
which  those  virtues  began  to  display  themselves  the  most  sig- 
nally, the  period  namely,  at  which  commenced  the  deadly  civil 
strife,  which  was  not  brought  to  an  end  until  thirty  years  of 
almost  incessant  warfare — and  that  of  the  bloodiest  and  most 
pitiless  nature — had  deluged  England,  from  her  metropolis  to 
her  remotest  provinces,  with  knightly  and  patrician  gore. 

We  showed,  that  in  truth  the  House  of  York  had  the  true 
title  to  the  throne  as  lineal  descendants — through  Anne,  Countess 
of  Cambridge,  an4  sister  of  the  last  Earl  of  March,  who  was 
the  mother  of  Richard  Duke  of  York — of  Philippa,  only  daugh- 
ter of  Lionel,  Duke  of  Clarence,  second  son  of  Edward  III.  of 
England.  The  line  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  eldest  son  of 
that  warlike  king,  became  extinct  with  Richard  II.,-  who  was 
murdered  in  Pontefract  castle,  leaving  no  issue  legitimate  or 
illegitimate,  in  1399.  Henry,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  who  deposed 
and  succeeded  Richard,  under  the  title  of  Henry  IV.,  was  de- 
scended directly  from  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  third  son  of  Ed- 
ward III.,  and  therefore  could  of  course  lay  no  claim,  founded 
on  birthright,  to  the  throne,  so  long  as  any  heirs  of  the  second 


150  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

son  of  Edward  should  be  in  existence,  which  it  has  been  shown 
there  were  in  the  persons  of  Richard  of  York  and  his  family  of 
sons,  which  was  numerous. 

In  reply  to  this  it  was  stated  that  Richard  II.,  son  of  the 
Black  Prince,  of  the  eldest  house,  had  been  dethroned  by  an 
unanimous  vote  of  the  Parliament,  on  account  of  his  total 
incapacity  to  govern  ;  and  that  the  vacant  throne  had  been  con- 
ferred by  the  same  power,  in  whom  it  was  competent  to  confer 
it,  on  Henry  of  Lancaster,  surnamed  Bolingbroke,  of  the  third 
son  ;  which  house,  though  confessedly  second  of  the  family, 
were  by  that  act  of  Parliament,  and  by  quiet  possession  of  the 
throne  during  two  reigns,  and  the  peaceful  transmission  of  it  to 
a  third  prince,  in  direct  succession,  thus  rendered  first  of  the 
realm  ;  and  if  not  right  heirs,  at  least  right  owners  of  the 
throne. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  question  is  an  intricate  one,  and  diffi- 
cult to  be  solved  ;  and,  though  it  is  evident  that  the  hereditary 
right  was  in  the  house  of  York,  that  there  was  no  valid  reason 
why  the  wearer  of  the  crown,  administrator  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  king  de  facto,  should  not  defend  the  realm  to  the 
possession  of  which  he  had  come  by  direct  succession  from 
father  and  grandfather ;  the  right  of  the  former  being  assured 
by  no  less  an  authority  than  that  of  the  two  houses  in  Parlia- 
ment assembled.  All  jurists  hold  that  the  adherents  of  a  king 
de  facto,  such  as  was  Henry  VI.,  Charles  II.,  and  the  First  and 
Second  Georges  of  England,  cannot  be  held  liable  to  charges  of 
treason  for  the  maintenance  of  existing  royalties  ;  and,  though 
the  bloody  character  of  the  age  and  the  fierce  partisan  spirit, 
which  succeeded  to  the  extinction  of  chivalry,  and  not  yet  miti- 
gated by  the  regular  systematic  principles  of  modern  warfare, 
led  to.  the  perpetration  of  savage  slaughters  and  sanguinary 
reprisals  during  the  reign  of  the  unhappy  Henry,  the  officers  of 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOTJ.  151 

the  Long  Parliament  never  pretended  to  punish  the  cavaliers  of 
Charles  I.  for  treason,  until  after  the  deposition  and  decapitation 
of  Charles,  when  the  Republic  and  the  Protectorate  had  in  their 
turn  become  the  governments  de  facto.  In  the  two  lamentable 
affairs  of  the  '15  aud  the  '45,  it  is  needless  to  say  that  neither  of 
the  pretenders  ever  attempted  to  hold  an  adherent  of  the  house 
of  Hanover,  the  actual  kingly  house,  as  traitors ;  though  they 
had  never  suffered  their  own  claim  to  fall  into  abeyance,  as  it 
appears  the  house  of  York  had  done,  through  the  reigns  of 
Henry  IV.  and  Henry  V.,  but  had  continually  adhered  to  the 
title  of  kings  of  England,  and  ever  kept  up  the  semblance  of  a 
court  at  St.  Germains,  under  the  protection  of  Louis  XIV. 

If,  therefore,  the  adherents  to  the  possessor  of  such  a  title  to 
the  throne  as  Henry  VI.  held,  cannot  be  held  amenable  on  the 
charge  of  supporting,  much  less  can  the  possessor  himself  be 
held  amenable  or  culpable  for  defending,  his  title.  Such  a  pos- 
sessor was  Henry  VI.  of  Lancaster  beyond  all  question — and 
taking  into  consideration  his  imbecility  of  character,  amounting 
almost  to  pious  idiotcy,  not  far  removed  from  that  of  the  six- 
teenth French  Louis,  it  was  not  only  justifiable,  but  right  and 
glorious  in  Margaret,  to  defend  the  inheritance  of  her  father 
and  her  children,  against  those  whom  she  had  ever  been  taught 
to  believe,  and  probably  did  believe,  in  all  sincerity,  to  be  the 
traitors  and  usurpers  of  her  husband's  and  his  house's  power. 

The  case  of  the  deposition  of  Richard  II.  and  the  accession 
of  Henry  IV.  in  his  place,  is  in  every  way  precisely  analogous 
to  that  of  James  II.  and  William  III.  of  England,  except  that 
the  former  revolution  was  performed  in  a  more  cruel,  and  mar- 
tial, and  less  deliberative  age  than  the  latter.  It  may  be  added 
that  Henry  IV.  rather  received  the  confirmation  of  the  popular 
voice  to  a  crown  which  he  had  grasped,  while  William  was 
called  to  the  defence  of  religion  and  liberty,  and  was  rewarded 


152  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

by  the  crown  which  he  had  so  defended.  The  difference  is, 
however,  rather  nominal  than  real,  and  it  cannot  be  disputed 
that  although  the  claim  of  the  Yorkists  was  the  truer  by 
descent,  that  of  the  Lancastrians  was  at  this  period  true  enough 
by  possession,  and  they  had  been  both  fools  and  cowards  had 
they  not  striven  to  the  last  in  defence  of  an  inheritance  so 
splendid,  even  then,  as  the  diadem  of  England.  It  is  not  the 
least  strange  thing  concerning  this  strange  succession  of  strug- 
gles, during  which  men  of  the  highest  birth  and  eminence 
changed  their  opinions  as  they  did  their  coats — almost  daily, 
with  as  little  reason  asked,  or  reproach  incurred — that  in  the 
final  conflict  the  Lancastrian  claimant,  Henry  of  Richmond, 
Duke  of  Brittany,  was  a  double  usurper,  possessing  no  title  de 
jure,  and  none  of  course  de  facto,  to  the  seat  from  which  he 
ejected  Richard  III.,  the  last  heir  male  of  the  house  of  York 
— though,  thanks  to  Shakspeare,  he  has  come  down  to  us  as  the 
gallant  asserter  of  good  rights,  and  righteous  avenger  of  foul 
wrongs  done  to  the  lawful  line  of  English  majesty. 

We  have  dwelt  on  this  so  long,  in  order  that,  after  having 
previously  shown  that  the  claim  of  the  Lancastrians  to  the 
throne  as  right  owners  is  entirely  worthless,  we  may  not  be 
charged  with  inconsistency  for  defending  Margaret  of  Anjou  in 
her  maintenance  of  her  husband's  and  son's  title  to  the  crown 
in  dispute  ;  and  having,  we  trust,  made  this  apparent  to  the 
understanding  of  every  intelligent  reader,  proceed  at  once  to 
the  narration  of  stirring  events  and  striking  scenes,  throughout 
which  she  conducted  herself  through  all  adversities  and  spites 
of  fortune,  if  not  as  a  very  amiable  or  very  gentle,  at  least  as  a 
true-hearted,  masculine-minded,  great,  and  glorious  woman, 
wife,  and  mother. 

Richard,  Duke  of  York,  the  first  claimant  in  the  order  of 
time  to  the  crown  of  England,  had  served  under  the  Govern- 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  153 

ment  of  Henry  VI.  as  regent  of  France,  in  which  high  office  he 
succeeded  the  great  Duke  of  Bedford  ;  and  subsequently  as 
commander  of  Ireland — which  unhappy  country  was,  as  it  has 
ever  been  within  the  memory  of  recorded  history,  distracted,  tur- 
bulent, and  ready  for  rebellion — and  by  holding  such  offices  un- 
der the  crown  had  virtually  admitted  its  authority.  While  he 
was  still  in  Ireland,  Cade's  well  known  Kentish  rebellion  had 
occurred?  and  had  in  the  end  been  defeated,  and  to  this  it  was 
believed  that  Richard  was  at  the  least  privy,  if  he  were  not 
actually  instigator  of  it ;  the  court  were,  however,  too  weak  to 
punish  or  impeach  him  openly,  and  perhaps  lacked  evidence 
whereby  to  show  his  connexion  with  the  rebels.  From  this 
time,  however,  it  is  certain  that  his  friends  and  partisans  began 
to  lay  claim  for  him  to  the  throne  by  right  of  descent ;  and 
soon  after,  in  1452,  he  actually  levied  an  army,  and  advanced  to 
the  gates  of  London,  demanding  a  reformation  and  the  dismis- 
sal of  the  Duke  of  Somerset — then  the  minister — from  all  au- 
thority and  power.  He  found,  however,  to  his  great  surprise 
the  gates  shut  against  him,  and  on  his  retreat  into  Kent  was 
pursued  by  Henry  with  very  superior  force,  and  compelled  to 
go  into  retirement ;  his  own  popularity,  no  less  than  the  weak- 
ness of  the  court,  and  it  may  be,  the  imbecile  good  nature  of 
the  king,  rendered  it  unwise  or  impossible  to  attaint  or  punish 
him.  It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  at  this  period  he  laid 
no  claim  to  the  kingly  title,  professing  merely  to  be  the  redress- 
er  of  the  wrongs  of  the  people,  and  the  champion  of  a  popular 
reformation.  During  this  period  he  lived  in  retirement  at  his 
seat  of  Wigmore,  on  the  borders  of  Wales,  awaiting  the  advent 
of  times  more  propitious  to  the  undertaking,  which  kept  him 
till  he  was  too  weary  of  tarrying  for  their  coming. 

The  following  year,  after  a  gleam  of  transient  success  (during 
which  Bordeaux  and  a  portion  of  Gascony  were  recovered  for 


154  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

the  moment),  the  English  were  severely  defeated  in  France, 
their  leader  Shrewsbury  slain,  and  all  hopes  of  the  recovery  of 
the  French  provinces  totally  extinguished  and  for  ever.  At 
about  the  same  time  a  son,  Edward,  was  born  to  Henry  by 
Margaret,  the  Frenchwoman,  who  was  already  accused  by  the 
people  in  general  of  the  treacherous  surrender  of  the  English 
conquests.  Again,  the  birth  of  an  heir  male  to  the  crown,  by 
excluding  the  house  of  York  from  all  chance  of  a  peaceful  suc- 
cession, rendered  its  partisans  more  zealous  and  urgent  for 
instant  action.  Within  a  brief  space  Henry,  always  incapable 
and  imbecile,  fell  into  such  a  fit  of  melancholy  moodiness  that 
he  became  unable  even  to  go  through  the  pageantry,  a*hd  sup- 
port the  semblance  of  royalty.  The  Queen  and  Council  were 
unable  to  resist  the  voice  of  the  peers  and  great  barons,  yielded 
perforce,  and  saw  Somerset  sent  to  the  tower,  and  Richard 
Duke  of  York  appointed  Lieutenant  of  the  kingdom,  with 
almost  all  the  authority  of  royalty,  which  his  friends,  and  per- 
haps the  Parliament  itself,  would  not  have  been  unwilling  to 
see  him  assume  in  style  and  title,  as  for  the  moment  he  had  it 
in  reality.  But  Richard,  though  he  was  not  "  without  ambi- 
tion," was,  as  it  seems,  "  without  the  illness  should  attend  it ;" 
and  by  his  moderate  and  amiable  conduct  during  his  possession 
of  the  regency  discouraged  his  own  party,  without  gaining  any 
gratitude  from  the  court ;  and  perhaps,  in  spite  of  his  good  in- 
tentions, in  the  end  caused  rather  evil  than  good  to  England 
by  his  very  virtue,  since  he  allowed  his  enemies  to  draw  to  a 
head,  and  gather  both  force  and  animosity  for  a  struggle  which 
even  then  the  most  far-sighted  men  perceived  to  be  inevitable. 
It  was  but  a  short  time  before,  emboldened  by  the  partial  re- 
covery of  Henry,  and  by  the  timidity  or  conscientiousness  of 
the  Duke  of  York,  the  Queen's  party  recovered  the  ascendency, 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  155 

released  Somerset  from  the  tower,  and  annulled  the  authority 
of  the  Duke. 

Then  indeed  Richard  felt  his  danger,  and  saw  that  it  was 
time  to  act ;  or  that  he  must  fall,  and  his  house  perish  with  him. 
He  took  arms,  though  still  without  claiming  the  title  of  king, 
advanced  on  London,  and  the  Lancastrians  advancing  to  meet 
him,  gave  them  battle  near  St.  Albans — the  first  in  which  blood 
was  shed  in  this  disastrous  struggle — and,  with  small  loss  to 
himself,  beat  them  decidedly,  five  thousand  persons  being  slain 
on  the  field ;  among  whom  were  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  the 
Earls  of  Northumberland  and  Stafford,  and  the  gallant  Lord  Clif- 
ford, by  whose  son  so  fierce  and  revengeful  a  part  was  played  in 
these  wars  theretofor.  The  king  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
duke,  who  treated  him  with  the  utmost  courtesy  and  respect, 
and  the  question  now  seemed  at  rest  for  ever.  But  the  duke 
again  hesitated,  and  was  contented  with  the  restoration  of  his 
protectorates,  and  indemnity  to  all  the  Yorkists,  and  the  revo- 
cation of  all  the  grants  which  had  been  made  by  the  crown 
since  the  death  of  Henry  V. 

Margaret,  however,  perceiving  doubtless  that  the  termination 
of  these  measures  must  inevitably  be  the  ultimate  exclusion  of 
her  son  from  the  throne,  should  the  House  of  York  hold  the 
authority,  influence,  and  resources  of  the  crown,  during  the  life 
of  Henry— whether  the  latter  nominally  held  the  throne  or  no — 
resolved  on  a  bold  and  instant  stroke  for  supremacy,  and  early 
in  the  following  year  produced  the  king,  again  somewhat  im- 
proved in  health,  before  the  houses,  and  caused  him  once  more 
to  resume  the  government,  which  the  Duke  of  York  did  not 
oppose,  and  all  things  once  again  seemed  settled  on  a  sure  and 
amicable  foundation,  terms  being  assented  to  by  both  parties, 
and  an  outward  reconciliation  patched  up  for  the  time,  which, 
however,  no  one  endowed  even  with  common  understanding 


156  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

could  expect  to  endure  beyond  the  moment.  After  a  brief 
breathing-pause  of  doubt,  hesitation,  and  deception,  a  paltry- 
chance  affray,  as  it  is  termed  in  history — though  in  all  proba- 
bility got  up  on  purpose  by  the  Lancastrians,  who  at  the  time 
were  in  the  ascendency — between  an  attendant  of  the  king 
and  one  of  Warwick's  followers,  kindled  a  flame,  which  was 
quenched  only  in  the  best  blood  of  England. 

Both  parties  flew  to  arms  :  and  after  one  fruitless  effort  at 
a  rising,  rendered  abortive  by  the  treachery  of  Sir  Andrew 
Wallop,  which  compelled  Warwick  again  to  retreat  beyond  the 
sea,  that  great  soldier  landed  in  Kent  with  the  Earl  of  Salis- 
bury and  the  Earl  of  March,  the  eldest  son  of  Richard,  after- 
wards Edward  Duke  of  York,  and  thereafter  Edward  IV.  of 
England  ;  received  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  he  entered 
London  in  triumph,  and  shortly  afterwards  once  again  utterly 
defeated  the  royalists  at  Northampton,  partially  owing  to  the 
treason  of  Lord  Grey  de  Ruthin,  who  commanded  the  king's 
van,  and  deserted  to  the  enemy  in  the  very  heat  of  action.  In 
this  action  fell,  as  usual,  many  of  the  flower  of  the  nobility,  to 
whom  throughout  these  wars  little  quarter  was  given  by  their 
fellow  nobles,  in  the  shock  of  battle,  in  the  pursuit,  or  in  cold 
blood  after  capture ;  and  in  it  likewise  was  first  shown  the  lau- 
dable example  of  sparing  the  common  people,  which  was  set 
here  by  Warwick  and  the  Earl  of  March,  but  which  continued 
as  much  to  be  the  rule  of  conduct  during  the  struggle  of  the 
rival  Roses,  as  did  the  merciless  and  wanton  butchery  of 
knights  and  nobles. 

Nor  is  it  easy  to  explain  this,  contrary  as  it  has  been  at  every 
other  period  of  English  history  to  the  habits  and  character  of 
that  people ;  for  it  cannot  be  accounted  for  by  any  system  of 
reprisals  or  vengeance  for  kindred  blood ;  for,  with  a  habit  and 
versatility  unprecedented  among  Englishmen,  and  since  equally 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  15 7 

abhorred  and  unpractised,  there  was  scarce  a  noble  on  either 
side,  even  to  the  princes  of  the  blood  themselves,  who  did  not 
change  his  party  several  times,  and  fight  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  those  whose  hands  were  yet  reeking  with  the  gore  of  their 
children,  their  brethren,  or  their  parents.  We  can  only  seek 
for. a  solution  of  these  two  strange  peculiarities  of  this  indivi- 
dual civil  war,  -in  the  fact  not  only  that  it  was  a  rude,  but  that 
it  was  a  transition  age ;  that  ancient  landmarks  were  all 
broken  down,  and  no  new  ones'  erected  in  their  places ;  that  the 
principles,  the  amenities,  the  courtesies,  of  the  chivalric  era  had 
fallen  into  disuse,  while  the  rules  of  a  strict  social  morality, 
of  obedience  to  the  laws  as  paramount  to  all  private  passions, 
and  a  legitimate  and  civilized  warfare,  had  not  yet  been  invented. 
Add  to  this  the  disturbance  of  men's  minds  by  the  constant 
recurrence  of  revolutions  and  the  love  of  innovation,  riot,  and 
rebellion  for  the  mere  sake  of  rebellion,  which  it  seems  to  be 
their  inevitable  tendency  to  produce.  The  king  once  more  fell 
into  the  hands  of  his  opponents,  who  as  usual  treated  him  with 
gentleness  and  respect,  perhaps  themselves  affected  by  the  sim- 
plicity and  innocence  of  his  life ;  perhaps  fearing  to  deal  with 
him  summarily,  owing  to  the  repute  for  sanctity  which  these 
qualities  had  procured  for  him  with  the  people  who  seem  to 
have  adored  him. 

In  this  instance,  however,  the  respect  shown  to  him  was 
limited  to  his  person,  not  extended  to  his  power ;  for  Richard 
of  York,  though  he  sought  not  even  now  violently  or  perforce  to 
dethrone  him,  laid  claim  to  the  regal  title  and  authority  before 
the  house  of  Peers,  who  debated  the  question  tranquilly  and 
gravely  for  several  successive  days,  and  at  length  decided  that 
the  title  of  the  house  of  York  was  good,  but  that  in  virtue  of 
Henry's  peaceful  succession  to  the  throne  and  quiet  tenure  of  it 
during  thirty-eight  years,  he  should  be  allowed  to  retain  the  title 


158  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  dignity  of  king  during  his  life,  the  present  administration 
and  future  inheritance  of  the  crown  being  in  Richard  and  his 
heirs.  A  more  temperate  and  equitable,  or,  at  the  same  time, 
a  more  inexpedient  or  temporizing  decision  could  not  have  been 
come  at — as  if  it  could  be  even  imagined  that  a  princess  of  the 
genius,  energy,  resources,  spirit,  and  perseverance — added  to  an 
almost  more  than  masculine  courage — of  Margaret,  would  have 
submitted  to  so  weak  a  compromise,  leaving  an  empty  symbol 
of  command  "  to  be,"  as  Scott  has  written  of  a  greater  exile, 

"  A  dagger  in  the  hand, 
From  which  our  strength  has  wrenched  the  brand." 

Even  before  the  act  was  passed,  or  the  authority  fixed  in  his 
hand,  she  had  levied  a  royal  army  in  Durham,  after  the  defeat 
of  Northampton,  having  fled  thither  with  her  infant  son,  and 
was  already  at  the  head  of  twenty  thousand  men,  when  the 
Duke  of  York,  fancying  himself  about  to  crush  the  incipient 
rebellion,  marched  at  the  head  of  five  thousand  to  meet  her, 
and  madly  disdaining  to  take  shelter  behind  walls  from  a 
woman's  war,  came  out  into  the  open  field  and  delivered  battle. 
But  Margaret  was  not  the  woman,  nor  Clifford  who  commanded 
under  her  the  leader,  to  be  treated  with  so  foolish  a  punctilio. 
The  army  of  the  Yorkists  was  totally  defeated,  the  duke  him- 
self slain  in  action  ;  his  son,  the  Earl  of  Rutland,  an  amiable 
youth  of  seventeen,  taken  prisoner  and  savagely  slaughtered  by 
Warwick,  and  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  with  many  other  captive 
nobles  beheaded  at  Pomfret  castle.  The  dead  body  of  the  duke 
was  decapitated  and  his  head  set  on  the  gates  of  York,  covered 
with  a  paper  diadem  in  derision  of  his  title,  by  Margaret's  express 
command ;  and  on  this  has  been  founded  a  prevalent  charge 
against  her — amounting  well  nigh  to  a  total  condemnation — of 
savage  and  unusual  ferocity.     It  was  a  bad  deed,  in  truth  ;  and 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  159 

far  would  we  be  from  defending  or  even  palliating  it.  Still  it 
must  not  be  unduly  magnified  or  set  down  in  malice.  The  age 
was  rude  and  cruel,  the  war  unusually  savage,  and  this  deed  has 
been  too  much  mixed  up  with  the  murder  of  Rutland,  in  which 
there  is  no  evidence  whatever  that  Margaret  bore  any  part. 
Moreover,  it  does  not  appear  that  Margaret  was  ever  guilty  of 
any  special  act  of  cruelty,  apart  from  the  relentless  and  cold- 
blooded policy  common  to  both  parties,  which  had  become,  as 
I  have  stated,  the  rule  of  the  war,  and  for  which  she  must  not 
be  blamed.  To  persons  engaged  in  the  desperate  game  of  war, 
involving  the  liberties,  the  lives,  the  happiness  of  thousands, 
perhaps  millions,  and  through  countless  generations,  single  and 
ridiculous  acts  become  trifles — perhaps  may  be  the  result  of  a 
pardonable  and  even  merciful  policy.  The  senseless  clay  of 
York  could  not  feel  the  blow  which  decapitated  it — the  disem- 
bodied spirit  must  be  far  above,  or  far  below,  the  degradation 
of  an  insult  offered  to  the  shell — and  if  Margaret  fairly  believed, 
as  she  well  might  do  at  that  period,  that  such  derision,  not  of 
the  dead  York,  but  of  what  she  deemed  the  dead  York's  usurped 
title,  could  favorably  affect  her  son's  claim,  there  was  in  truth 
much  less  cruelty  in  mutilating  one  dead  body,  than  in  slaying 
or  causing  the  slaughter  of  many  hundred  thousand  living  men. 
But  the  former  case  offends  our  delicacy,  shocks  our  nerves, 
awakens  our  individual  sympathies,  and  therefore  we  shriek — 
as  Carlisle  would  say — horror  over  it ;  the  latter  is  sensual, 
legitimate,  and  performed  to  the  sound  of  martial  music  and  the 
applauding  cries  of  admiring  nations,  and  therefore  we  throw  up 
our  caps,  and  instead  of  shrieking  over  the  corpses  of  the 
slaughtered  millions,  cry,  glory !  glory !  We  are  no  great 
admirers  of  either  ;  but  we  do  think  that  Margaret,  as  the  world 
goes  now,  would  be  held  justified  in  fighting  for  her  own  and 
her  son's  royalty — much  more  was  she  in  the  then  opinion  of 


160  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

mankind,  the  adverse  question  never  having  been  mooted  ;  and 
if  she  had  a  right  to  risk  the  lives  of  tens  of  thousands  to  win  or 
retain  that  which  philosophy  calls  a  bauble,  but  which  no  phi- 
losopher we  ever  heard  of  refused  to  wear,  it  matters  very  little 
whether  she  stuck  a  paper  crown  on  York's  cold  head  or  not 
It  was  not  a  very  womanly  deed,  it  is  true ;  but  Margaret  takes 
no  claim  for  being  a  very  womanly  woman.  On  the  whole,  a 
great  deal  too  much  has  been  made  of  the  matter,  as  there  has 
of  many  individual  acts  of  the  great  Napoleon.  Individual 
leaders,  sporting  with  the  destiny  of  nations,  and  squandering 
human  blood  like  rain-water,  must  be  judged  by  wholesale,  by 
the  righteousness  of  their  causes,  the  sincerity  of  their  convic- 
tions, the  truth  of  their  principles,  and  the  inward  meaning  of 
their  character — not  by  single  deeds,  which,  if  the  whole  be  good, 
were  necessary  to  the  producing  of  that  good  ;  if  evil,  are  but  as 
raindrops  in  the  ocean  of  iniquity. 

This  terrible  defeat  of  the  Yorkists  effected  no  permanent 
good,  however,  to  the  Lancastrians,  for  after  several  other 
fierce  actions,  in  which  victories,  defeats,  and  cruelties  were 
pretty  equally  balanced  between  the  parties,  Margaret  fell  back 
into  the  north,  while  Edward,  by  his  father's  death  Duke  of 
York,  entered  London,  and  was  at  once  proclaimed  King  of  Eng- 
land, under  the  title  of  Edward  IV.,  in  the  year  1461.  Still 
the  fierce  energy  of  Margaret  failed  not,  and  in  the  north  she 
speedily  collected  an  army  of  sixty  thousand  men,  which  en- 
countering Edward  and  the  Earl  of  "Warwick  on  Towton  field 
near  Tadcaster,  met  with  a  rout  and  slaughter,  in  which  thirty- 
six  thousand  men  fell  in  the  action  or  in  the  pursuit,  and  among 
them  half  the  remaining  nobility  of  the  Lancastrians. 

The  ex-king  and  Margaret  again  escaped ;  the  latter  into 
Scotland  and  thence  into  France,  from  both  which  kingdoms 
she  obtained  succors,  and  only  three  years  later  than  the  rout 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  161 

of  Towton,  again  invaded  England,  again  gave  battle  to 
Edward  at  Hexham,  in  Northumberland,  and  again  suffered  a 
defeat  so  disastrous,  that  her  army  was  utterly  scattered  and 
herself  separated  from  all  her  attendants,  and  forced  to  seek 
asylum  in  the  depths  of  Hexham  forest. 

Here  she  gave  as  singular  an  example  of  personal  intrepidity 
and  of  the  effect  produced  by  high-born  magnanimity  in  adverse 
times  over  low  and  even  malignant  nature,  as  she  had  before 
given  of  royal  perseverance  and  indefatigable  energy.  Having 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  robbers,  she  was  despoiled  of  her  orna- 
ments, and  treated  with  the  utmost  indignity  ;  but  while  they 
were  quarrelling  or  carousing  over  the  booty,  she  made  her 
escape  from  them  at  the  dead  hour  of  midnight,  and  concealing 
herself  and  the  young  prince  in  a  brake,  awaited  the  coming 
morn.  With  the  first  light  she  was  surprised  by  a  single  pur- 
suer, and  taking  desperate  counsel  in  desperate  affairs,  she  threw 
herself  on  his  generosity,  which  argues  in  herself  the  possession 
of  a  generous  mind. 

"  This  is  the  son  of  your  king,"  she  cried  ;  "  to  your  charge  I 
commit  him,  be  his  guardian  and  his  savior." 

Nor  was  her  generosity  deceived,  for  he  did  protect  and  save 
her,  and  by  his  means  she  escaped  to  Flanders,  and  thence  to 
the  small  provincial  court  of  her  poor  powerless  father,  King 
Kene  of  Provence,  where  she  dwelt  many  years  in  deep  seclusion, 
but  without  ever  resigning  the  hope^  or  rather  the  determina- 
tion, of  returning  and  striking  another  blow  for  England's  royal 
crown.  Less  fortunate,  Henry  was  taken,  and  though  treated 
with  some  show  of  courtesy,  was  immured  in  the  tower.  Less 
fortunate,  all  her  noble  friends  who  survived  the  rout  of  Hex- 
ham, suffered  forthwith  upon  the  scaffold ;  and  surely  the 
sceptre  seemed  to  have  departed  from  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

But  still  solitary  and  secluded,  in  poverty,  obscurity,  and 
8* 


162  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

sorrow,  that  stern  and  resolute  woman  hoped  on,  and  conspired 
and  determined.  At  length  the  time  arrived,  and  the  man. 
Warwick,  the  king-maker,  unjustly  and  ungratefully  treated  by 
Edward,  came  over  to  Margaret's  side,  and  after  many  a  year 
of  negotiation  and  intrigue  with  France  and  Burgundy,  obtained 
succors,  which  enabled  him  to  invade  England,  and  in  eleven 
days  after  his  landing,  he  who  had  made  had  unmade,  and 
Edward,  himself  dethroned,  was  in  turn  a  fugitive  from  his 
crown  and  country. 

Edward,  however,  with  energy  equal  to  the  emergency,  him- 
self obtained  succor  in  Burgundy  and  Zealand,  landed  in  York- 
shire, outmanoeuvred  Warwick  who  had  advanced  to  meet 
him  at  Leicester,  entered  London,  and  again  became  master  of 
Henry's  person  and  his  briefly  born  authority.  A  few  days 
later  a  fearful  action  was  fought  at  Barnet,  in  which  Warwick 
would  have  won  but  for  one  of  those  blind  chances  which  often 
decide  the  fate  of  battles.  The  cognizance  on  Edward's  banner 
was  the  Sun  of  York,  that  of  De  Yere,  Earl  of  Oxford,  a 
merlet,  or  five-rayed  star,  and  in  the  confusion  and  dust  of  the 
melee  the  latter  nobleman,  who  commanded  the  Lancastrian 
reserve,  was  in  the  act  of  bringing  them  up  to  a  decisive 
charge,  when  he  was  charged  by  mistake  and  driven  off  the 
field  by  his  own  friends,  and  while  all  were  in  disorder,  Edward 
restored  the  fight  and  won  the  day.  Warwick  fell  with  his 
brother  Montacute.  No  quarter  was  given  by  £he  victors,  and, 
with  small  loss  to  the  Yorkists,  the  Lancastrian  cause  was  anni- 
hilated. 

On  that  very  day  Margaret  with  her  son,  now  a  youth 
of  eighteen  years  and  of  singular  promise,  landed  at  Weymouth, 
and  learned  but  too  soon  the  fatal  news  of  Warwick's  death 
and  her  husband's  renewed  captivity.  For  a  moment  she  was 
paralysed,  but  her  indomitable  spirit  could  not  even  now  be 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU.  163 

daunted.  Once  more  she  gathered  forces,  only  once  more  to  be 
defeafed  on  her  last  field  at  Tewksbury.  All  her  adherents  who 
survived  the  rout  and  had  taken  sanctuary  in  a  neighboring 
church,  were  dragged  out  and  instantly  beheaded- — meet  pre- 
lude for  what  was  to  follow. 

Margaret  and  her  son  were  brought  captives  before  Edward, 
who  addressed  the  brave  boy  insultingly.  "How  dare  you," 
he  cried,  "  enter  my  realm  with  lifted  lance  and  banner  flying  ?" 
"To  recover  my  father's  kingdom,"  replied  the  youth,  un- 
dauntedly, "  and  his  heritage  from  his  grandfather  and  father 
to  him,  and  from  him  to  me  lineally  descended." 

Edward,  pitiless  and  conscious  of  no  generous  feeling,  smote 
him  in  the  face  with  his  gauntlet;  his  brothers  George  and 
Eichard,  Clarence  and  Gloucester,  aided  by  Hastings  and  Sir 
Thomas  Gray,  stabbed  him  to  death  with  their  daggers  almost 
before  the  face  of  his  devoted  mother.  That  mother  was 
thrown  into  the  tower,  in  which  her  husband  died  but  a  few 
days  afterwards,  not  without  strong  suspicion  of  having  been 
murdered — even  by  the  hand,  as  it  has  been  stated,  though  pro- 
bably without  foundation,  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester.  Here 
she  languished  for  four  years,  until  ransomed  by  Lewis  XL  of 
France,  the  most  politic,  the  most  despotic,  the  least  generous 
and  most  avaricious  prince  in  Europe — of  such  strange  compo- 
sition are  men  made — for  50,000  crowns.  He  gave  her  an 
asylum  in  his  realms,  and  she  died,  but  not  until  1482,  "  the 
most  unhappy  queen,  wife,  and  mother  in  Europe,"  says  Vol- 
taire ;  and  perhaps,  had  it  not  been  for  that  very  Voltaire, 
there  had  never  died  one  more  unhappy  in  the  person  of  Marie 
Antoinette  of  France,  who  possessed  much  of  the  spirit  though 
none  of  the  genius  of  Margaret ;  while  their  husbands  were  dis- 
tinguished by  so  total  a  lack  of  both,  that  it  is  necessary  to  keep 
constantly  in  mind  their  passive  domestic  virtues,  before  we 


164  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

can  decide  whether  it  is  pity  or  contempt  we  feel  as  we  read  of 
their  fortunes  and  most  cruel  fate. 

To  conclude  with  a  few  short  words.  In  her  after  reputation, 
Margaret  of  Anjou  seems  to  us  to  have  been  even  more  unhappy 
than  in  her  life.  Less  fortunate  even  than  "those  brave  men 
who  lived  before  Agamemnon,"  as  Horace  sings,  "  but  who 
all  fell  unwept  and  lie  entombed  in  endless  night,  because  they 
found  no  bard  divine,"  Margaret  of  Anjou  lives  for  ever 
branded  with  black  reproach,  because  she  found  the  divinest 
bard  of  all,  immortal  and  inimitable  Shakspeare. 

Faultless  she  was  not — who  is,  or  has  been  ? — womanly  she 
was  not,  according  to  our  ideas  of  womanhood  in  these  days 
when  our  young  men  are  not  ashamed  to  be  ladylike — but  for 
her  own  day,  she  was  every  inch  a  woman,  every  inch  a  queen, 
and  every  inch  an  English  queen.  Though  she  feared  death  as 
little  as  the  boldest  of  her  barons,  she  never  unsexed  herself  by 
wearing  arms  or  doing  actual  battle — she  was  neither  traitoress, 
adulteress,  nor  murderess,  as  it  has  pleased  Shakspeare  to  por- 
tray her,  and  the  world  to  believe  on  his  portraiture — but  a 
true  wife ;  a  devoted  mother ;  a  great,  brave,  gallant  woman. 
Her  faults  were  those  of  her  age ;  her  virtues  were  her  own. 
"Whither  she  is  gone  we  know  not ;  but  of  this  we  may  rest 
well  assured,  that  wheresoever  she  now  is  tire  tongue  of  detrac- 
tion can  pierce  or  rend  her  heart  no  longer. 


Jtatnj  lire  digjijj , 


AND    HIS    WIVES 


1521. 


HENRY  THE  EIGHTH, 

AND  HIS  WIYES. 


In  no  character,  perhaps,  within  the  whole  range  of  human 
history,  are  the  fatal  and  destructive  influences  of  unlimited 
power,  a  subservient  ministry,  and  the  opportunity  of  unbridled 
gratification,  on  a  mind  naturally  selfish  and  addicted  to  plea- 
sure, more  clearly  demonstrated  than  in  that  of  the  eighth 
Henry  of  England. 

When  he  ascended  the  throne  of  England,  on  the  decease  of 
his  father,  Henry  VII.,  the  conqueror  of  Bosworth  field — one  of 
the  coldest,  cruellest,  and  most  avaricious  princes  who  ever  sate 
on  a  throne — his  accession  was  greeted  with  universal  joy  and 
gratulation  by  all  ranks  and  classes  of  society.  Young,  and  of 
singularly  vigorous  and  handsome  frame,  with  a  fine  countenance 
and  fresh  complexion,  a  lively  and  spirited  air,  a  perfect  skill  in 
every  manly  and  athletic  exercise,  a  very  considerable  profi- 
ciency in  literature  and  the  arts,  Henry,  at  this  time  in  his 
eighteenth  year,  was  as  unlike  as  possible  to  the  bloated,  un- 
wieldy, peevish,  and  furious  tyrant — with  a  face  and  a  roar  liker 
to  those  of  an  old  lion  than  to  the  features  and  voice  of  a  man — 
as  we  find  him  in  later  days,  and  as  he  is  better  known  to  most 


168  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

readers,  than  as  the  gay  and  gallant  prince,  the  beloved  of  his 
people,  and  the  admired  and  courted  of  all  Europe.  Yet  such 
he  was  in  the  earlier  years  of  his  reign  ;  vehement,  indeed,  im- 
petuous and  impulsive,  addicted  to  pleasure  and  magnificence, 
but  graceful  and  gracious  to  his  courtiers,  and  so  popular 
among  the  lower  orders — to  whom  his  bold,  blunt,  jovial  man- 
hood, and  his  own  manly  skill  in  the  lists,  at  tilt  or  tournament, 
in  the  chase,  and  in  the  battle-field,  had  greatly  endeared  him — 
that  the  memory  of  his  after  tyranny  has  been  almost  forgotten, 
and  he  is,  even  to  this  day,  rather  a  favorite  of  the  lower  orders, 
especially  in  London,  who  still  talk  of  the  good  old  times  of 
Bluff  King  Harry,  although  those  good  old  times  were  stained 
with  more  blood,  and  blackened  with  more  atrocity  than  any 
previous  or  succeeding  era. 

The  cause  of  this  may,  perhaps,  in  some  degree  be  traced  to 
the  fact  that  in  the  reign  of  Henry,  as  likewise  in  that  of  his 
manly  hearted  daughter,  Elizabeth,  who  is,  like  her  father,  to 
this  day  a  historic  favorite,  the  executions  on  the  scaffold  and 
at  the  stake,  and  the  oppressions  and  exactions  of  all  kinds  fell 
mainly  on  the  upper  orders — that  it  was  noble,  princely,  and 
royal  blood,  which  flowed  like  water  through  the  latter  portion 
of  his  reign ;  and  that  the  humble  and  the  lowly  born  were 
treated,  even  when  guilty  of  open  rebellion,  with  unusual  Jeni- 
ency  and  tenderness.  But  still  more,  I  believe  it  to  be  attribu- 
table to  the  splendor  and  pomp  of  his  court,  to  the  comeliness 
and  magnificence  of  his  person,  which  always  influence  the 
minds  of  the  vulgar,  his  jovial  and  hearty  good  humor — for^ 
when  not  thwarted  and  enraged  by  opposition,  he  was  of  a 
joyous  and  even  generous  temper — and  his  success  in  all  his 
foreign  enterprises,  which  could  be  enjoyed  and  appreciated  by 
all  his  subjects,  while  his  severities  and  oppressions  were  un- 
cared  for  except  by  the  few  who  suffered  them. 


HENRY   THE    EIGHTH,    AND    HIS    WIVES.  169 

His  reign  must  ever  be  memorable  for  the  great  work  of  re- 
formation which  was  performed  therein,  owing  in  the  first  in- 
stance to  the  passions  entirely,  and  in  no  sort  to  the  principles 
of  the  king ;  and  prosecuted  to  the  end  through  his  capricious 
humors,  and  fury  at  all  opposition  to  his  will,  not  from  any  po- 
litical object  or  religious  conviction.  So  closely,  however,  was 
this  suppression  of  the  old  monastic  establishments,  and  this 
secession  of  the  church  of  England  from  that  of  Eome,  con- 
nected with  the  strange  story  of  his  conjugal  relations,  that  I 
shall  touch  on  the  facts  incidentally  in  the  order  of  their  occur- 
rence, not  treat  them  under  a  particular  head. 

And  as  the  first  step  which  led,  through  the  passions  of  one 
man,  to  the  emancipation  of  millions  from  servitude  to  priest- 
craft, and  which,  so  far  as  we  can  judge,  is  the  primary  cause 
of  England's  subsequent  and  present  greatness,  I  come  to  the 
first  marriage  of  the  youthful  prince  with  the  widow  of  his 
elder  brother  Arthur,  the  Prince  of  Wales — Catharine  the  In- 
fanta of  Arragon,  fourth  daughter  of  those  famous  sovereigns 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  Arthur  having  died  within  a  few 
months  of  the  wedding  without  issue,  Henry  the  Vllth,  de- 
sirous of  maintaining  his  alliance  with  Spain,  and  unwilling  to 
restore  the  Infanta's  dowry  of  200,000  ducats,  compelled  Henry, 
whom  he  created  Prince  of  Wales  on  the  occasion,  to  be  con- 
tracted to  the  Infanta.  Henry,  who  was  but  twelve  years  of 
age,  while  the  princess  was  nineteen,  made  all  the  resistance  of 
which  such  a  boy  is  capable  ;  but  the  king  persisting,  and  a  dis- 
pensation being  obtained  from  the  Pope,  the  espousals  were 
contracted  between  the  parties  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1502. 

Seven  years  afterwards,  when  the  prince  w7as  in  his  nineteenth 
year,  he  succeeded  to  the  throne,  and  by  the  advice  of  his 
grandmother,  the  Countess  of  Richmond  and  Derby,  he  retained 
as  his   cabinet  the   most   eminent  and   least  popular  of  his 


170  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

father's  ministers,  by  whose  advice,  and  that  of  the  countess, 
he  at  length  determined,  though  contrary  as  it  would  seem  to 
the  opinion  of  the  primate  of  England,  and  also  to  the  dying- 
desire  of  Henry  VIL,  who  appears  to  have  repented  of  the 
measure,  and  urged  his  son  to  remonstrate  against  it ;  he  at 
length,  I  say,  determined  in  spite  of  the  great  disparity  of  years 
between,  and  her  previous  connexion  with  his  own  brother,  to 
marry  the  princess  Catharine ;  and  accordingly  the  marriage 
was  performed  and  consummated.  Her  well  known  virtues, 
the  modesty  and  sweetness  of  her  temper  and  disposition,  her 
beauty,  and  the  great  affection  which  she  bore  to  the  king ; 
the  greatness  of  her  dowry ;  the  advantages  of  the  Spanish 
alliance ;  the  necessity  of  counterbalancing  the  power  of 
France  ;  and  the  propriety  of  fulfilling  the  late  king's  con- 
tracts, were  the  principal  arguments  adduced  whereby  to  con- 
vince the  king.  That  they  succeeded  was  probably  from  the 
weight  of  the  political,  rather  than  the  personal  considerations ; 
for  although  Catharine  was  of  fine  person,  engaging  manner, 
and  rare  excellence  of  character,  both  as  a  woman  and  a  queen, 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  passion  or  predilection  could  have 
influenced  a  youth  of  Henry's  sensual  and  sanguine  tempera- 
ment towards  one  so  much  his  senior,  and  otherwise  so  seriously 
disqualified  for  his  bed.  Still,  however,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  Henry  lived  with  her,  so  far  as  can  be  ascertained,  with 
perfect  tenderness  and  satisfaction  for  many  years ;  that  he 
appointed  her  queen-regent  of  England  during  his  absence  in 
France  at  the  head  of  his  army ;  that  he  carried  her  with  him 
into  that  kingdom,  when  he  subsequently  visited  it  in  peace,  to 
hold  with  his  superb  and  splendid  rival,  Francis  the  First,  that 
famous  conference  known  as  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold ; 
that  he  created  her  only  daughter  Mary,  Princess  of  Wales ; 
and  that  it  was  not  until  nearly  eighteen  years  after  their 


HENRY    THE    EIGHTH,    AND    HIS    WIVES.  1*71 

union,  when  he  was  hopeless  of  having  any  male  heir  by 
Catharine,  when  he  began  to  be  alarmed  by  doubts  of  his 
daughter's  legitimacy,  and  fears  of  the  Scottish  succession  after 
his  own  demise — when  last  he  was,  as  he  asserted,  tormented 
by  religious  scruples  on  that  head,  that  he  resolved  to  abrogate 
the  marriage  with  the  Infanta. 

Even  after  he  had  resolved  on  this  step,  to  which  he  was 
urged  by  the  advice  of  his  confessor,  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  by 
the  unanimous  opinion  of  all  the  English  prelates  with  the  one 
exception  of  Fisher,  Bishop  of  Rochester,  by  the  counsel  of 
"Wolsey,  and  his  own  doctrinal  studies  of  Thomas  Aquinas — and 
which  was  perhaps  really  expedient  as  a  political  measure  for 
securing  the  succession  of  the  English  throne — he  still  visited 
her  constantly,  conducted  himself  towards  her  with  all  tender- 
ness and  respect,  and  never  hinted  the  slightest  dissatisfaction 
with  her  conduct  and  demeanor. 

On  the  whole,  I  am  disposed  to  regard  the  conduct  of  Henry 
in  regard  to  Catharine  of  Arragon  with  less  decided  reproba- 
tion than  almost  any  other  action  of  his  life ;  I  think  it  justi- 
fiable to  believe,  judging  from  Henry's  known  addiction  to  po- 
lemical and  theological  studies,  and  his  generally  superstitious — 
for  in  a  man  so  cruel  and  immoral,  they  cannot  be  termed  re- 
ligious— tendencies,  that  he  was  for  once  seriously  sincere  in  his 
scruples ;  and,  moreover,  though  it  were  a  late  period  at  which 
to  discern  the  validity  of  such  scruples,  and  a  cold  and  hard 
measure  to  repudiate  a  blameless  wife  after  eighteen  years  of 
undisturbed  connexion,  and  to  illegitimatize  her  innocent  off- 
spring, those  scruples  were  certainly  valid,  and  the  great  proba- 
bility is  that  the  marriage  would  have  been  declared  invalid, 
the  princess  Mary  illegitimate,  and  that  a  civil  war  would  have 
ensued,  after  the  death  of  Henry,  at  the  cost  of  much  blood 
and  treasure  to  England. 


172  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

How  far  lie  was  sincerely  actuated  by  these  views,  it  is  now 
of  course  impossible  to  decide ;  but  it  appears  to  be  suscepti- 
ble of  clear  proof,  that  he  had  mooted  the  question  of  divorce 
with  Catharine  of  Arragon,  before  he  had  ever  seen  Anne  Bo- 
leyn,  to  his  sudden  passion  for  whom  his  conduct  at  this  crisis 
is  often  ascribed,  and  though  that  passion  doubtless  inflamed 
his  scruples,  and  spurred  him  to  more  vehement  action,  it  is 
certainly  not  fair  to  ascribe  to  it  the  origin  of  his  intentions. 

The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  he  married  Catharine  in  the  first 
instance,  from  what  were  supposed  to  be  at  the  time  sufficient 
and  satisfactory  political  reasons,  but  were  afterwards  discovered 
to  be  the  very  reverse ;  that  he  had  never  any  feelings  towards 
her  stronger  than  calm  and  moderate  regard  ;  that  the  disco- 
very of  the  probable  ill  consequences  of  the  marriage,  com- 
bined with  the  decay  of  her  beauty,  the  increase  of  her  years, 
and  certain  diseases  to  which  she  was  liable,  awoke  his  scruples, 
and  perhaps  excited  some  aversion  to  her  person ;  and  that  to 
these  was  added  the  last  grain  needed  to  turn  the  balance 
against  the  queen,  the  violent  and  sudden  passion  created  on 
first  sight  of  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn. 

The  marriage  of  Henry  with  the  queen  had  been  consum- 
mated, only  in  consequence  of  dispensation  from  the  Pope  ;  and, 
in  order  to  abrogate  it,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  incestuous 
and  therefore  null  and  void,  a  papal  bull  was  necessary ;  and 
to  this  end,  Clement,  the  ruling  pontiff,  was  piled  with  seduc- 
tions and  cajoleries  by  Henry  through  his  minister,  the  famous 
Wolsey,  while  Charles  the  First,  King  of  Spain  and  Emperor^of 
Germany,  menaced  him  no  less  violently,  in  order  to  prevent  a 
divorce  against  his  aunt,  on  grounds  so  disgraceful. 

For  a  time,  Clement  appears  to  have  wavered,  and  been  in 
truth  inclined  to  the  cause  of  Henry,  and  accordingly  Car- 
dinal Campeggio  was  sent  legate  to  England,  and  a  commission 


HENRY    THE    EIGHTH,    AND    HIS    WIVES.  1*73 

was  issued  to  him  and  Wolsey,  in  order  to  examine  into  the 
question  in  all  its  particulars. 

They  accordingly  commenced  their  proceedings,  by  citing 
the  king  and  queen,  both  of  whom  presented  themselves  in 
court,  the  former  answering  to  his  name  ;  Catharine,  however, 
instead  of  answering,  cast  herself  at  the  feet  of  the  king,  and 
uttered  a  harangue  of  the  most  pathetic  and  affecting,  and  at 
the  same  time  of  the  most  dignified  and  impressive  character, 
which  should  have  moved  to  the  strongest  sympathy  and  even 
doubt,  if  not  to  conviction,  any  hearts  less  obdurate  than  those 
of  Henry  and  the  cardinals  ;  after  this,  denying  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  court,  with  a  low  reverence  to  the  king,  she  departed 
from  the  hall,  and  never  would  return  to  it.  She  was  declared, 
therefore,  contumacious,  and  the  legate  proceeded  to  try  the 
case;  Henry  declaring  on  her  withdrawal,  that  he  had  never 
found  cause  to  doubt  her  probity  and  honor,  but  that,  on  the 
contrary,  she  had  ever  been  a  dutiful,  affectionate,  and  virtuous 
wife  ;  and  that  his  only  scruples  were  those  concerning  the 
legality  of  his  espousals ;  from  the  charge  of  encouraging  these 
scruples,  he,  moreover,  acquitted  Cardinal  Wolsey. 

For  some  time,  all  things  appeared  to  progress  in  the  man- 
ner most  consonant  to  the  King's  wishes;  but  at  the  moment 
when  Henry  was  confidently  looking  for  a  sentence  in  his 
favor,  "Campeggio  prorogued  the  court  on  pretences  wholly 
frivolous,  until  the  first  of  October,  and  returned  to  Rome, 
when  it  was  understood  that  he  had  burned  the  decretal  bull 
which  had  been  intrusted  to  him. 

At  this  time,  or  a  little  earlier,  Anne  Boleyn  makes  her 
appearance  on  the  court  stage,  having  recently  returned  from 
the  court  of  France,  a  young  lady  of  high  birth — being  de- 
scended in  the  female  line  from  the  great  houses  of  Norfolk, 
Ormond,  andjiasting — of  excellent  accomplishments,  and  most 


174  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

extraordinary  beauty  ;  as  is  rendered  unquestionable  by  the 
fine  picture  of  Holbein,  which  was  recently  in  the  collection  at 
Hampton  Court,  the  palace  of  the  great  cardinal  with  whose 
downfall  Anne's  rise  was  consentaneous.  This  was  the  period, 
to  use  the  beautiful  words  of  an  English  poet, 

"When  passion  taught  a  monarch  to  be  wise, 

And  gospel-light  first  dawned  from  Boleyn's  eyes  ; 

though,  in  truth,  it  must  be  admitted  that  wisdom  was  little 
concerned,  however  might  have  been  passion,  in  this  question. 
His  passion  for  Anne,  therefore,  hourly  increasing,  and  her 
virtues  and  modesty  depriving  him  of  all  hopes  otherwise  than 
through  an  honorable  marriage,  added  to  this,  the  discovery  of 
Clement's  tergiversation  and  politic  evasions  being  enforced  upon 
him  by  the  evocation  from  Rome,  he  resolved  to  have  recourse 
to  other  methods  than  the  papal  court  for  the  procurement  of 
a  divorce ;  and,  as  a  preliminary  to  these,  he  resolved  on  the 
destruction  of  his  former  prized  and  most  trusted  minister 
Wolsey.  For  above  three  years,  the  struggles  of  Henry  to 
obtain  a  divorce  had  now  endured,  and  with  their  close  he 
regarded  Wolsey  in  the  most  unfavorable  light,  though  it  was 
probable  that  the  cardinal  had  in  truth  served  him  to  the  best 
of  his  ability.  Anne,  too,  was  hostile  to  him  from  a  conviction 
that  he  would  oppose  her  marriage,  and  his  ruin  was  decreed, 
and  no  sooner  decreed  than  consummated.  He  was  dismissed 
from  all  his  offices.  York  Place,  afterwards  the  royal  palace 
at  Whitehall,  his  town  residence,  was  confiscated  to  the  royal 
use,  and  all  his  rich  furniture,  plate,  and  personal  property. 
At  times,  indeed,  half  capriciously,  the  king  would  appear  to 
relent  towards  his  ancient  favorite,  but  in  the  end  he  was  aban- 
doned to  the  hatred  of  his  enemies,  was  arrested  on  a  charge 
of  high  treason,  and  it  is  probable  escaped  a  death  on  the  scaf- 


HENRY   THE    EIGHTH,    AND    HIS    WIVES.  l7o 

fold  only  by  dying  of  a  broken  heart,  at  Leicester  Abbey,  on 
his  way  from  the  North  to  stand  his  trial.  His  last  words 
were  these — a  memorable  lesson  to  all  those  who  put  their  trust 
in  princes — "  Had  I  but  served  God  as  diligently  as  I  served 
the  king,  He  would  not  have  given  me  over  in  my  grey  hairs  !" 

He  died,  truly  a  great,  but  alas  !  not  a  wise  man,  nor*  good. 
Best  his  ashes  !  Ambition  was  the  ignis  fatuus  which  toled 
him  from  his  path,  as  since  his  time  it  has  toled  many  a  better 
man,  and  will,  it  may  be,  on  earth  for  ever. 

In  the  meantime,  having  obtained  opinions  from  all  the  French 
and  English,  and  several  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Italian 
universities,  in  his  favor,  as  well  as  the  advice  of  the  English 
bishops ;  having  strengthened  himself  by  an  alliance,  offensive 
and  defensive,  w7ith  Francis  the  First  of  France  ;  and  being  assured 
of  the  support  of  his  parliament,  which  at  that  period  was  a 
mere  tool  of  oppression  in  the  king's  right  hand,  by  which  he 
invariably  executed  his  most  odious  crimes  and  cruelties,  he  re- 
solved to  withdraw  his  obedience  from  the  court  of  Home,  and 
privately  celebrated  his  marriage  with  Anne  Boleyn,  whom  he 
had  previously  created  Marchioness  of  Pembroke. 

It  now  became  necessary  that  the  marriage  should  be  de- 
clared, in  order  to.  save  the  new  queen's  honor  ;  accordingly  he 
avowed  it  publicly,  and  proceeded — rather  late  in  the  course  of 
things,  one  would  say — to  have  the  invalidity  of  his  marriage 
with  Catharine  declared. 

Up  to  this  period,  Henry  had  treated  Catharine  with  all  dis- 
tinction and  even  regard,  visiting  her  frequently  and  endeavor- 
ing to  persuade  her  to  cease  her  opposition  to  his  divorce  ;  now, 
however,  finding  her  inflexible,  he  ceased  to  visit  her,  and  al- 
lowed her  to  choose  any  of  his  palaces  which  she  would  for  her 
abode.  Ampthill,  near  Dunstable,  was  her  choice,  and  in  Dun- 
stable she  was  cited  to  show  cause,  before  the  court  of  Cran- 


176  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

mer,  primate  of  England,  and  successor  to  Wolsey  in  the  king's 
favor,  why  a  divorce  should  not  be  pronounced  against  her. 
Refusing  to  appear  or  plead,  she  was  again  declared  "  contuma- 
cious," and  her  marriage  was  annulled  as  invalid  and  unlawful. 
A  subsequent  sentence  ratified  Henry's  marriage  with  Anne 
Boleyn ;  and  that  princess  being  shortly  after  brought  to  bed 
of  a  daughter,  Elizabeth,  that  mighty  and  man-hearted  woman, 
who  afterwards  swayed  the  sceptre  with  such  puissance  and  re- 
nown, Mary,  Princess  of  Wales,  was  declared  illegitimate,  as 
the  issue  of  an  unlawful  marriage,  and  the  daughter  of  Anne 
created  Princess  of  Wales  in  her  stead. 

From  this  period,  for  some  time,  Anne  Boleyn's  felicity  was 
the  theme  of  every  tongue ;  her  ascendency  over  the  king, 
whose  passion  for  her,  it  seems,  increased  rather  than  flagged 
on  possession,  grew  daily;  and  so  anxious  was  Henry  to  efface 
every  trace  of  his  former  marriage,  that  he  announced  to  the 
unhappy  Catharine  that  she  was  to  be  styled,  thenceforth,  only 
the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales,  and  endeavored  by  compul- 
sory measures,  and  menaces  against  her  servants,  to  make  her 
acquiesce  in  that  determination.  For  once,  however,  his  iron 
will  was  vanquished,  for  so  long  as  she  lived  she  admitted  no 
one  to  her  presence,  but  with  the  wonted  ceremonial ;  nor  could 
any  threats  deter  her  servants  from  waiting  on  her  according  to 
her  title  and  pretensions. 

She  died  of  a  lingering  illness,  in  her  fiftieth  year,  at  Kim- 
bolton,  in  Huntingdonshire,  having  written  a  little  while  before 
her  death  a  most  tender  and  touching  epistle  to  the  king,  styl- 
ing him  her  "most  dear  Lord  and  Husband  ;"  recommending 
to  him  his  daughter,  Mary,  the  sole  pledge  of  their  loves ;  and 
craving  his  protection  for  her  maids  and  servants,  concluding 
with  the  words,  "  I  make  this  vow,  that  mine  eyes  desire  you 
above  all  things."     Henry,  it  is  said,  was  moved  to  tears,  on 


HENRY    THE    EIGHTH,    AND    HIS    WIVES.  lYT 

reading  this  last  evidence  of  Catharine's  unmerited  affection ; 
but  it  is  also  stated,  though  the  narrator,  Burnet,  is  a  historian 
of  more  prejudice  and  passion  than  veracity,  that  Queen  Anne 
rejoiced  inhumanly  and  indecently  at  the  demise  of  her  rival. 
I  would  fain  disbelieve  this  ;  for  the  general  conduct  of  Anne 
Boleyn  was  ever  gracious,  gentle,  mirthful,  and  compassionate. 
Sprightly  and  light-hearted,  and  leaning  perhaps  too  much  to 
a  levity  of  manners  which  French  usages  sanctioned,  but  of 
unspotted  character,  of  a  forgiving,  generous,  and  caressing  dis- 
position, loved  in  her  life  and  regretted  at  her  death,  Anne  Bo- 
leyn had  scarce  the  character  that  could  exult  over  the  cold 
ashes  of  a  rival — a  rival  whom  she  had  vanquished  in  the  ten- 
derest  points,  and  mediately  deprived  of  happiness,  of  dignity, 
and,  at  the  last,  of  life. 

Thus  Catharine  departed  ;  born  to  high  fortunes  and  ad- 
vanced to  higher,  which  she  supported  with  equanimity  and 
adorned  with  majesty  and  virtue  ;  doomed  to  calamity  and 
ruin,  which  she  endured  with  magnanimity  and  patience;  hap- 
pier in  her  decease  than  most  of  her  successors,  as  she  was 
certainly  superior  to  them  all  in  elevation  of  character,  in  dig- 
nity of  demeanor,  in  the  decencies  of  public,  and  the  virtues  of 
domestic,  life.  As  a  queen  she  was  good,  as  a  private  woman 
great.  Happy  they  who  can  so  support  prosperity,  and  sur- 
mount adversity — of  a  truth,  she  proved  herself,  and  that  right 
royally,  equal  to  either  fortune. 

From  the  moment  of  Henry's  union  with  Anne  Boleyn,  the 
date  of  which  we  have  outstripped  a  little,  in  the  desire  of  com- 
pleting the  sad  tale  of  the  fate  of  Catharine  uninterrupted,  his 
whole  character  was  strangely  altered  for  the  worse  ;  and  from 
a  rash,  impulsive,  passionate,  and  headstrong  prince,  violent  in 
his  will,  impatient  of  opposition,  and  selfish  in  the  extreme,  he 
now  became  a  barbaroiiSj  bloodthirsty  tyrant ;  second,  if  second, 

9 


178  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

only  to  Tiberius  and  Nero,  whose  cruelties  upon  the  Christians 
he  imitated  almost  to  the  letter — upon  romanists  and  protest- 
ants  alike,  whosoever  the  first  opposed  his  will. 

This  king  had  no  religious  principle  in  view  in  alienating 
England  from  the  dominion — temporal  first,  and  then  spiritual — 
of  the  Bishop  of  Rome  ;  but  as  his  lust  of  beauty  first  tempted 
him  to  resist  Clement,  so  his  lust  of  power  and  avarice  of  gold 
led  him  to  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries,  the  confiscation 
of  the  church  lands,  and  the  appropriation  to  himself  of  all  the 
privileges  and  puissance  of  the  Pope. 

During  six  years,  the  king's  struggles  with  the  Council  of 
Rome  had  continued ;  and  during  these,  above  three  of  which 
had  been  spent  in  a  married  state  with  Anne,  his  affections  for 
her  constantly  increased  ;  nor  is  it  wonderful  that  it  should 
have  done  so,  for  she  was  a  creature  of  the  rarest  beauty — tall, 
slender,  and  of  perfect  symmetry,  with  a  skin  of  snow ;  large, 
soft  blue  eyes,  and  dark  auburn  tresses ;  nor  were  her  accom- 
plishments less  remarkable  than  her  personal  charms. 

Yet  he  had  now  triumphed  over  Rome  ;  had  violently  grasped 
all  that  he  coveted  of  church  property ;  had  been  disappointed 
by  the  birth  of  a  dead  son ;  and  last,  not  least,  had  seen  and 
loved  Jane,  daughter  of  Sir  John  Seymour — a  young  lady,  lovely 
as  the  day,  and  possessing,  in  addition  to  her  charms,  in  which 
she  at  least  rivalled  Queen  Anne,  the  advantages  of  youth  and 
novelty.  From  that  moment,  Henry  seems  not  only  to  have 
ceased  to  love,  but  actually  to  have  hated,  Anne  Boleyn ;  for, 
in  this  odious  and  inhuman  voluptuary,  there  were  two  singular 
characteristics — first,  that  licentious  as  he  was,  furious  in  his 
passion,  and  unrestrained  in  his  will  by  any  considerations 
human  or  divine,  he  appears  rarely  or  never  to  have  had  re- 
course to  gallantry  or  intrigue,  or  to  have  contemplated  the  possi- 
bility of  gratifying  his  passions  except  by  marriage — and  second, 


HENRY    THE    EIGHTH,  AND    HIS    WIVES.  179 

that  his  passion,  so  soon  as  it  was  satiated,  was  converted  into 
a  furious  hatred,  which  could  be  satisfied  only  by  the  blood  of 
the  once  loved  object. 

Those  only  of  his  victim  wives  whom  he  had  never  loved,  he 
never  hated  ;  and  therefore  suffered  to  live  on  in  sorrowful,  dis- 
honored widowhood. 

In  his  new  passion  for  Jane  Seymour,  he  was  now  set 
on  the  death  of  Anne;  and  with  him  a  resolution,  once 
adopted,  tarried  not  long  time  short  of  its  fulfilment.  Whom 
tyrants  thirst  to  destroy,  courtiers  are  soon  found  to  accuse ; 
and  the  king  having  affected  violent  jealousy  on  the  casual 
dropping  of  the  queen's  handkerchief  during  a  tournament 
at  Greenwich,  charges  of  infidelity  were  preferred  against 
her ;  and  she  was  cast  into  the  tower,  protesting  her  inno- 
cence with  tears  and  invocations  on  the  Supreme  witness  of 
all  human  hearts. 

For  her,  in  her  utnrost  need,  who  had  ever  interceded  for  all 
sufferers,  consoled  all  sorrowers,  gratified  all  petitions  during 
her  prosperous  hours,  there  was  found  no  intercessor,  no  con- 
soler, no  petitioner.  Her  own  uncle,  Norfolk,  preferring  the 
ties  of  religious  partisanship  to  those  of  blood,  became  her  most 
embittered  enemy ;  and  Cranmer  alone,  vainly  for  her,  and  in 
the  end  fatally  for  himself,  strove  to  divert  Henry  from  his  brutal 
purpose.  She  was  brought  to  trial  before  a  jury  of  peers  ;  and, 
with  her  own  brother,  Lord  Rochford — whose  wife,  a  woman  of 
infamous  character  of  whom  we  shall  hear  more  anon,  was  con- 
victed of  adultery  and  high  treason — without  one  shadow  of 
evidence,  all  spectators  present  pronouncing  her  wholly  inno- 
cent, was  sentenced,  to  be  burned  alive  or  beheaded  at  the  king's 
pleasure.  Thereupon,  turning  her  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven, 
"  0  Father !"  she  cried  ;  "  O  Creator !  who  art  the  way,  the 
truth,  and  the  life,  thou  knowest  that  I  have  not  deserved  this 


180  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

fate ;"  and  addressing  her  judges  pathetically,  she  declared  her 
innocence. 

But  innocence  itself  was  powerless ;  and,  Henry  being  de- 
termined not  only  to  destroy  this  lovely  and  virtuous  being, 
who  had  slept  so  softly  in  his  bosom,  but  al*o  to  i legitimatize 
her  issue,  she  was  induced,  by  terrors  of  the  extreme  sentence 
of  the  stake,  to  admit  that,  in  consequence  of  her  prior  attach- 
ment to  the  Lord  Piercy,  a  lawful  impediment  existed  to  her 
marriage  with  the  king;  whereupon,  most  reluctantly,  the 
primate  who  presided,  was  compelled  to  declare  the  marriage 
null,  and  Elizabeth  illegitimate — a  compliance  with  the  tyrant's 
will,  which  availed  not  in  after  days  to  save  his  own  body  from 
the  flames  of  persecution. 

Reconducted  to  the  Tower,  she  sent  her  last  message  to  the 
king,  commending  her  daughter  to  his  care,  and  again  pro- 
testing her  innocence ;  to  the  directors  of  the  Tower  she  al- 
most jested  on  her  approaching  fate ;  -continued  to  the  end 
serene  and  tranquil ;  and,  submitting  herself  resignedly  to  the 
hands  of  the  executioner  of  Calais,  who  had  been  imported  as 
more  skilful  than  any  in  England,  died  at  a  single  blow,  which', 
in  her  own  words,  sent  her — it  can  scarce  be  doubted — "  to  be 
a  saint  in  heaven." 

On  the  morrow  of  her  execution,  Henry  espoused  Jane  Sey- 
mour, unable  in  the  rage  of  his  passion  to  give  so  much  of  de- 
lay as  even  decency  required,  to  the  memory  of  one  whom 
his  cruel  and  remorseless  heart  had  once  doubtless  loved  as  well 
as  it  was  capable  of  loving  anything. 

Hoping,  on  the  death  of  Anne  Boleyn,  to  regain  perhaps 
her  legitimacy,  the  Lady  Mary  now  sought  to  be  reconciled 
with  Henry  ;  and,  at  length,  after  renouncing  the  hope,  and 
owning  her  own  mother's  marriage  unlawful,  she  was  in  some 
sort  received  into  favor ;  but  not  for  that  would  the  old,  incon- 


HENRY   THE    EIGHTH,  AND    HIS    WIVES.  181 

sistent  tyrant  reject  Elizabeth,  who  was  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
grace  with  the  new  queen — a  lady  of  sweet  disposition  and  ex- 
cellent virtue — who  sorrowed  for  the  fate  of  the  rival  she  had 
unwillingly  supplanted,  and  treated  her  orphan  child  with  ten- 
derness almost  maternal. 

During  the  short  ascendency  of  sweet  Jane  Seymour,  the 
king's  temper  was  either  softened  by  her  charms,  and  gentle, 
loving  disposition,  or  diverted  from  his  wonted  cruelties  by  two 
dangerous  insurrections  in  the  North,  for  no  burnings  or  behead- 
ings sully  the  brief  space  of  her  pre-eminence  over  his  affec- 
tions. 

But  she  died — as  the  ancients  were  wont  to  say  "  whom  the 
gods  love,  die" — young  ;  nor  survived  Henry's  short-lived  love, 
to  endure  his  indifference  or  incur  the  doom  which  ever  fol- 
lowed his  hatred.  Within  a  year  of  her  marriage,  and  two 
days  after  the  birth  of  her  son  Edward — created,  when  not  yet 
six  days  old,  Prince  of  Wales,  Duke  of  Cornwall,  and  Earl  of 
Chester — Jane  Seymour  passed  into  a  better  world ;  the  best 
perhaps,  the  most  beautiful,  and  certainly  the  happiest,  not  least 
so  in  the  hour  of  her  death,  of  Henry's  queens.  Yet  though 
he  loved  her,  his  joy  for  the  birth  of  an  heir  wiped  away  his 
grief  for  the  death  of  a  wife,  almost  before  a  tear  was  shed ; 
and  it  does  not  appear  that  her  memory  dwelt  so  much  as  an 
hour  in  his  cruel  and  callous  heart. 

As  hitherto  the  king's  marriages  had  been  dictated  by  pas- 
sion and  the  preference  for  beauty,  which  he  called  affection, 
his  next  was  to  be  founded  on  political  motives  ;  and,  after  de- 
liberating long  between  the  niece  of  the  emperor,  and  the  re- 
latives of  Francis,  he  at  length  decided  on  marrying  Ann  of 
Cleves,  whose  picture  he  had  seen  and  admired,  and  by  whose 
hand  he  hoped  to  secure  the  support  of  the  German  princes, 
in  case  of  war  arising  with  the  catholic  powers,  who  threat- 


182  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

ened  hostilities  in  consequence  of  his  secession  from  the 
Pope. 

In  this  union  he  was  disappointed,  and,  at  first  sight  of  the 
princess,  who  was  in  truth  a  coarse,  overgrown,  ill-natured  wo- 
man, without  grace  or  accomplishments,  and  speaking  no  lan- 
guage but  Dutch,  he  conceived  the  most  violent  aversion  to  her, 
swore  that  she  was  a  "  Great  Flanders  mare,"  and  that  he 
could  never  bear  her  the  least  affection. 

He  continued,  however,  for  some  time  to  treat  her  with  civili- 
ty ;  and  even  affected  still  to  place  confidence  in  Cromwell, 
who  had  advised  the  match  ;  although  he  had  probably  already 
determined  on  his  ruin,  as  he  had  previously  on  that  of  Wolsey, 
when  he  suspected  him  of  opposing  his  divorce  from  Catharine. 

A  new  flame,  however,  soon  possessed  him  ;  for  he  saw,  and 
determined  on  raising  to  his  throne,  the  exquisitely  beautiful 
Catharine  Howard,  niece  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Cromwell's 
most  deadly  enemy,  who  used  the  influence  of  the  lovely  but 
profligate  girl  to  ruin  the  good  minister,  even  as  Anne  Boleyn 
had  been  used  for  the  destruction  of  his  great  predecessor. 

A  bill  of  attainder  was  immediately  issued  against  Cromwell, 
and  one  of  divorce  against  the  queen.  The  former  resulted  in 
the  speedy  execution  of  the  minister ;  the  latter  in  the  no  less 
speedy  abrogation  of  Anne's  marriage,  on  the  plea  of  her  pre- 
vious contract  with  the  Duke  of  Lorraine,  added  to  Henry's 
assertion  that  he  had  not  given  his  inward  consent  to  the  union. 
Anne,  who  was  of  an  indifferent  temper,  exhibited  no  displea- 
sure ;  accepted  of  the  king's  adoption  as  his  sister,  of  prece- 
dence next  to  the  king  and  his  own  daughters,  with  an  annuity 
of  three  thousand  pounds ;  and  having  on  these  terms  assented 
to  the  divorce,  lived  and  died  in  England,  without  manifesting 
any  signs  of  pride,  except  in  refusing  to  return  to  her  own 
country  after  that  affront. 


HENRY    THE    EIGHTH,  AND    HIS    WIVES.  183 

Immediately  thereafter,  his  marriage  was  consummated  with 
Catharine  Howard ;  and  so  delighted  was  he  with  the  charms 
of  her  person,  her  voluptuous  temperament,  and  her  consum- 
mate conversational  powers  and  address,  that  he  actually  caused 
thanks  to  be  returned  to  heaven  in  his  private  chapel  for  the 
felicity  the  conjugal  state  afforded  him. 

Hourly,  however,  did  his  cruelty  and  rage  increase.  Smith  - 
field  continually  glowed  with  the  funereal  pyre  of  victims,  sen- 
tenced to  the  flames  without  trial.  To  deny  any  articles  of  the 
catholic  faith  was  even  more  fatal  to  the  protestants  than  to 
assert  the  pope's  supremacy  to  catholics.  The  stake  and  the 
faggot  for  the  former  ;  for  the  latter  the  scaffold  and  the  axe. 
So  that  a  foreigner,  then  in  London,  writing  to  a  friend,  asserted, 
that  "  those  in  England  who  were  against  the  Pope  were  burned, 
and  those  who  were  for  him  were  hanged."  Nor  were  the  po- 
litical sufferers  less  numerous,  though  more  noble  than  they 
who  fell  for  their  faith ;  among  the  former  was  the  venerable 
Countess  of  Salisbury,  the  last  of  the  great  line  of  Plantage- 
net,  who  refused  to  lay  her  head  on  the  block,  or  submit,  un- 
tried of  her  peers,  to  an  unjust  sentence.  She  ran,  to  the  last, 
frantically  about  the  scaffold,  tossing  her  grey,  dishevelled  locks, 
pursued  by  the  executioner  with  his  gory  axe,  slashing  at  hei 
neck  with  ineffective  blows,  till  at  length  she  was  hewn  down, 
and  decapitated.  The  last  of  a  great  royal  line,  she  died  bravely 
and  royally. 

This  marriage  of  Henry's — great  as  had  been  his  gratifica- 
tion in  the  early  period  of  his  intimacy  with  the  youthful, 
beautiful,  and  artful  Kate,  and  vast  as  had  been  her  influence 
upon  his  mind,  almost  even  tending  towards  a  counter-revolu- 
tion in  religious  matters — was  to  produce  to  him,  almost  ere 
its  first  year  was  ended,  some  of  those  evils  and  exactions  which 
his  alliance  had  invariably  worked  on  others. 


184  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

Tidings  were  brought  to  Cranmer  of  anti-connubial  dissolute- 
ness so  enormous,  of  girlish  infamy  so  hideous  and  disgusting 
on  the  part  of  the  queen — with  almost  undoubted  proofs  of  in- 
fidelity to  the  king — that  he  knew  not  what  to  do,  seeing  that 
to  conceal,  or  reveal  it,  seemed  almost  dangerous.  On  advising, 
however,  with  the  Chancellor  and  the  Earl  of  Hertford,  he  dis- 
closed his  information  to  the  king,  who,  though  he  at  first  ut- 
terly disbelieved  it,  and  loudly  expressed  his  disbelief,  was  soon 
forced  to  give  full  credit  to  the  proofs  which  poured  in  upon 
him  from  every  side.  Her  infamy,  almost  from  her  cradle  up- 
wards, was  incredible  and  unconcealed.  The  king,  the  old, 
bloodthirsty,  brutal  tyrant,  so  deeply  was  his  pride  affected,  re- 
mained a  long  time  speechless,  and  then — was  it  for  the  first 
time  since  boyhood  ? — burst  into  tears  of  agony  and  fury  un- 
controllable. She  died,  as  she  deserved  to  die,  on  the  scaffold  ; 
and  her  death,  like  her  life,  was  bold,  impudent,  and  shameless. 
With  her,  perished  under  the  axe  the  assistant  and  companion  of 
her  crimes,  the  bad  Lady  Rochford,  whose  polluted  evidence 
had  been  held  good  against  Anne  Boleyn  and  her  own  husband, 
the  brother  of  her  regal  victim.  And  it  is  recorded,  that  men 
were  now  more  convinced  than  ever  of  Anne's  innocence,  by 
this  shameful  catastrophe  of  the  chief  witness  against  her. 
With  her  died,  also,  Manhoe,  Derham,  and  Colepepper,  mani- 
festly convicts  of  the  crime  ;  but  many  persons  of  high  birth, 
unjustly  attainted  for  misprision  of  treason  in  concealing  the 
criminality  of  their  kinswoman,  among  whom  was  the  old 
Duchess  of  Norfolk,  her  grandmother,  Lord  William  Howard, 
her  uncle,  and  his  wife,  the  Countess  of  Bridgewater,  and  nine 
others,  were  pardoned  by  the  king,  most  unapt  for  pardon ; 
which  may  be  held  full  evidence  that  their  sentence  was  not 
unjust  only,  but  too  flagrant  for  enforcement. 

Henceforth,  as  if  this  injury  to  his  pride  had  acted  as  the 


HENRY    THE    EIGHTH,  AND    HIS    WIVES.  185 

sting  of  an  arrow  upon  a  gaunt,  old,  famished  lion,  goading 
him  to  fresh  fury  and  carnage,  he  literally  battened  on  the  blood 
of  the  good,  the  noble,  and  the  great.  Neither  church  could 
now  shield  its  professors  from  the  stake,  the  scaffold,  or  the  gal- 
lows ;  no  age  or  reverence  of  virtue,  no  tenderness  of  sex  or 
years,  no  gallantry  or  service  of  manhood  could  excite  pity. 
The  realm  was  a-blaze  with  man-consuming  hecatombs,  afloat 
with  noble  blood.  Never  before,  never  since,  were  there  such 
times  in  England.     Never  again  may  there  be  such. 

Yet  not  even  this  affront  could  restrain  Henry's  amorous  pro- 
pensities ;  and,  in  the  year  1542,  within  two  years  ( long  space 
for  him  to  tarry)  after  that  infamous  discovery,  he  married 
Catharine  Parr,  widow  of  the  Earl  of  Neville,  a  woman  no 
longer  in  the  flower  of  youth,  nor  beauteous ;  but  virtuous,  and 
winning  in  her  ways,  and  gifted  with  a  shrewd  tact  to  divine 
and  anticipate  the  humors,  and  thence  to  anticipate  the  wishes, 
and  avoid  the  anger  of  her  tyrant. 

Twice,  in  despite  of  all  her  caution,  she  was  all  but  entangled 
in  the  toils  which  had  been  destructive  to  her.  Once,  when 
beautiful,  brave  Anne  Ascue  suffered  herself  to  be  dislocated  on 
the  rack,  so  that  she  could  not  stand  at  the  stake,  but  was  burn- 
ed sitting  in  a  chair,  rather  than  implicate  her  queen  in  opi- 
nions which  both  held  in  common,  touching  the  real  presence ; 
and  again  when,  betrayed  by  the  ardor  and  excitement  of  con- 
versation, she  contended  too  eagerly  in  argument  in  behalf  of 
the  reformed  doctrines,  against  Henry  himself,  who,  it  must  be 
remembered,  was  no  reformer,  nor  protestant,  but  as  strong  a 
catholic  as  any  ;  save  that  he  wished  himself  to  be  both  pope 
and  king,  and  to  concentrate  under  one  office  and  one  title  the 
emoluments  and  powers  of  the  two  dignities. 

The  cleverness  and  womanly  tact  with  which  she  extricated 
herself  from  that  dilemma,  by  flattering  Henry's  love  of  power 

9* 


186  PERSONS   AND    PICTURES. 

and  pride  of  argument,  and  by  playing  upon  his  foibles,  must 
give  us  a  high  opinion  of  her  talent  and  self-conduct,  whatever 
it  may  do  of  her  sincerity.  In  such  a  case,  however,  sincerity 
had  been  suicidal ;  and  under  such  circumstances,  if  under  any, 
to  be  insincere  may  be  palliated,  if  not  pardoned. 

Suffice  it,  that  she  regained  the  confidence  of  the  old,  bloated, 
peevish  tyrant's  mind  ;  heard  him  reproach  the  chancellor,  who 
came  with  forty  pursuivants  to  arrest  her,  as  a  "  knave,  fool, 
and  beast;"  and  retained  her  hold  upon  his  regard  to  the  last, 
in  spite  of  the  ill  offices  of  Gardiner,  and  others  of  her  enemies 
and  his  sycophants. 

But  the  end  was  now  near  at  hand ;  for  after  within  a  few 
days'  time  having  executed  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  the  most  ac- 
complished nobleman  of  the  day,  the  patron  of  letters,  the  lover 
of  the  fair  Geraldine — at  once,  like  the  prince  of  Denmark,  the 
courtier,  scholar,  soldier — and  condemned  the  father  of  his  last 
victim,  Norfolk,  to  the  axe,  he  died  in  the  fifty-sixth  year  of  his 
age,  and  the  thirty-eighth  of  his  reign,  the  worst  man  and 
worst  king  that  ever  sat  upon  an  English,  perhaps  upon  an 
European  throne,  since  the  establishment  of  modern  Europe. 

He  left  a  will,  bequeathing  the  crown,  first  to  Prince  Edward, 
then  to  the  two  princesses,  in  the  line  of  seniority  ;  thereafter, 
failing  issue,  to  the  Marchioness  of  Dorset,  the  elder,  and  the 
Countess  of  Cumberland,  the  younger  daughter  of  his  second 
sister,  the  French  queen  ;  overlooking  the  posterity  of  his  eld- 
est sister,  the  Queen  of  Scots,  on  account,  it  is  probable,  of  her 
religion — a  will  which  bequeathed  two  reigns  of  bloodshed,  and 
anarchy  or  tyranny  to  England  ;  the  evil  effects  of  which  were 
counteracted  only  by  the  iron  will  and  manly  wisdom  of  the 
greatest,  if  not  the  best,  of  English  queens — his  own  lion- 
hearted  daughter,  by  his  first  and  most  innocent  victim — Eliza- 
beth, who  to  the  energy,  the  courage,  the  spirit,  and  same  touch 


HENRY   THE    EIGHTH,  AND    HIS   WIVES.  187 

of  the  self-will  of  her  father,  added  all  the  protestant  feeling, 
and  all  the  truthfulness,  though  none  of  the  sweetness,  of  her 
mother,  Anne  Boieyn. 

Verily !  to  look  on  these  things,  and  others  that  occurred 
then,  and  thereafter,  even  the  Christian  might  be  apt  to  say, 
"  Even  on  this  earth  there  is  retribution  ;"  and  to  believe,  with 
j^Eschylus  of  old,  that  bloodshed  begetteth  bloodshed,  and  that, 
of  ancestral  crime,  crime  is  the  offspring,  unto  the  latest  gene- 
ration. 


intt  isrtu: 


1556. 


ANNE    ASCUE. 


The  fierce  old  tyrant,  Henry  VIII.,  was  drawing  towards  his 
end ;  bloated,  diseased,  unwieldy,  he  had  lost  every  vestige  of 
those  good  looks  which  in  his  younger  days  had  delighted  the 
eyes — of  that  gallant  and  bold  activity  which  had  awakened  the 
admiration — and  of  that  bluff  and  jovial  good  humor  which 
had  won  the  affections — of  his  people.  Like  a  gaunt  old  lion  he 
became  but  the  more  fierce  and  cruel  as  his  physical  and  mental 
powers  decayed ;  arose  despotically  barbarous  in  the  mainte- 
nance of  his  sovereign  power,  in  proportion  as  he  felt  himself 
the  less  capable  of  maintaining  it. 

During  his  long  and  bloody  reign,  on  one  pretence  or  an- 
other, he  had  put  to  death  by  the  block  many  of  the  brightest 
ornaments  of  his  nobility ;  he  had  half  decimated  his  people  by 
the  stake  and  the  faggot,  burning  protestants  alive  for  denying 
the  "  real  presence,"  and  hanging  papists  for  maintaining  the 
supremacy  of  the  Pope ;  he  had  sacrificed  two  wives  to  his  jea- 
lousy or  his  satiety  by  a  bloody  death  ;  he  had,  throughout  his 
protracted  sovereignty  of  seven  and  thirty  years,  showed  himself 
the  most  vicious  and  inhuman  monster  that  ever  sat  upon  a 
throne  :  and  yet — strange  to  say  !  owing  to  some  personal  qua- 
lities, such  as  daring  bravery,  profuse  expenditure,  a  sort  of  wild 


192  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  capricious  generosity,  and  his  rough  and  ready  accessibility 
to  all  his  subjects,  he  had  preserved  to  the  last  the  regard  and 
even  the  admiration  of  his  subjects  ;  and  is  even  now  regarded 
traditionally  by  the  lower  orders  of  EDgland,  as  a  sort  of  roi 
bonhomme,  under  the  sobriquet  of  Bluff  King  Hal — much  as 
in  the  neighboring  kingdom  of  France,  the  Fourth  Henry  of 
that  realm  has  been  with  much  more  justice  esteemed  by  his 
people. 

In  the  latter  years  of  his  reign,  his  violent  dogmatism  on 
religious  points  and  niceties  of  creed  increased  in  a  greater  de- 
gree than  any  other  of  his  strange  and  fearful  inconsistencies. 
Since  he  had  taken  to  holding  public  controversies  in  his  own 
person  against  the  wretches,  who,  in  case  of  his  failing  to  per- 
suade and  convert  them,  were  doomed  to  the  horrors  of  a  fiery 
death,  he  had  come  to  regard  the  acceptance  of  any  creed 
different  from  his  own  as  a  personal  insult  to  his  understanding, 
and  an  overt  act  of  treason  against  his  sovereignty. 

Since  his  mania  for  arguing  on  the  subject  of  the  real  pre- 
sence, and  punishing  those  who  disputed  or  denied  it,  increased 
hourly,  it  became  actually  a  position  of  peril  to  be  admitted  to 
a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  the  polemical  king,  who  was 
almost  certain  to  entrap  any  person,  whom  he  desired  to  con- 
found, between  the  horns  of  a  dilemma  from  which  he  could 
scarce  hope  to  escape  without  incurring  the  perils  of  heresy  or 
high  treason. 

The  mental  energy  and  physical  activity  of  the  king  had 
now  both  failed  ;  he  was  not  able  to  take  any  part  in  the  ath- 
letic exercises  which  still  continued  down  to  his  day — the  last 
expiring  sparks  of  feudalism  and  chivalry,  or  in  those  bold  and 
stirring  sports  of  the  field,  the  stag  hunt,  cheered  by  the  deep 
chorus  of  the  full-mouthed  Southron  hounds,  and  the  blast 
of  the   merry  bugles — or  the  fierce  brief   gallop   after  the 


ANNE   ASCUE.  193 

long-winged  falcon,  striving  with  all  its  wings  to  outsoar  the 
towering  ascent  of  the  grey  heron  hawk ;  in  both  of  which 
pursuits  he  had  taken  so  much  delight,  until  the  increasing  cor- 
pulence of  his  huge  bloated  frame,  and  the  growing  infirmities 
of  an  advanced  age,  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  bestride 
a  horse,  much  less  to  follow  the  hawk  or  the  greyhound  by  mere 
fleetness  of  foot,  as  it  had  been  his  wont  to  do  at  a  time  when 
it  was  not  the  mere  flattery  of  cringing  courtiers  which  pro- 
claimed him  the  best  and  boldest  rider,  the  swiftest  runner,  and 
the  strongest  man,  of  all  within  the  limits  of  his  kingdom. 

A  stroll  in  the  beautiful  gardens  of  Hampton  Court,  or  on 
the  lordly  terraces  of  Windsor,  was  now  the  longest  excursions 
of  which  the  king,  once  so  energetical  and  restlessly  active,  was 
now  capable ;  and  in  these,  when  he  was  not  at  the  council 
table,  fulminating  the  terrors  of  his  deathful  decrees  on  all  who 
questioned  his  authority  in  sacred  matters,  or  arguing  in 
person  with  protestants  who  dared  question  the  doctrines  of 
the  church  of  Rome,  and  with  catholics  who  ventured  to  main- 
tain the  supremacy  of  the  head  of  that  church,  he  spent  many 
hours  daily,  attended  by  his  wife,  the  queen  Catherine  Parr, 
her  bevy  of  fair  ladies  in  waiting,  and  a  body  of  his  greater 
and  more  influential  courtiers. 

There  has  been  much  error  in  the  estimate  usually  formed 
of  the  religious  feelings  or  principles — for  opinions  or  convic- 
tions I  cannot  bring  myself  to  call  them — of  the  eighth  Henry, 
and  of  the  extent  and  nature  of  the  reformation  which  he  set 
on  foot  in  England.  In  the  end,  it  is  true  that  the  changes 
which  he  set  on  foot  did  lead  to  the  almost  total  extinction  in 
England  proper  of  the  catholic  faith,  and  to  the  establishment 
of  what  Henry  would  himself  have  called  the  Lutheran  heresy. 
But  nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  no  end  was  farther  than 
that  from  his  desire  or  his  contemplation.     Infuriated  in  the 


194  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

first  instance  by  the  steady  and  persevering  opposition  of  Cle- 
ment, who  then  occupied  the  papal  chair,  to  his  divorce  from 
Catharine  of  Arragon,  and  contemplated  marriage  with  the 
beautiful  Anne  Boleyn ;  and  encouraged  in  his  rebellious  senti- 
ments, by  the  unwillingness  which  had  ever  existed  in  the 
church  as  well  as  the  laity  in  England — fostered,  probably,  in 
some  degree,  by  its  insular  position — to  submit  implicitly  to  the 
absolute  authority  of  a  foreign  head,  Henry  had  absolutely 
rejected  all  obedience  and  allegiance,  on  his  own  part  and  on 
that  of  his  subjects,  to  the  head  of  the  church  at  Rome, 
and  had  not  only  declared  himself  to  be,  but  had  obtained  the 
acknowledgment  of  the  church  of  England,  that  he  indeed 
was  the  supreme  and  sole  head  of  that  church.  But  that 
church  was,  it  must  be  remembered,  not  what  we  now  under- 
stand as  the  church  of  England,  but  a  purely  and  thoroughly 
Romish  church,  differing  in  no  respect  from  the  continental 
churches  which  professed  the  same  faith,  except  in  referring  to 
the  English  monarch,  instead  of  to  an  Italian  priest,  the  su- 
preme direction  of  its  religion  and  care  of  its  consciences. 

It  had  its  cardinals,  its  censorials,  its  altars  and  its  incense, 
its  confessionals  and  its  sacraments,  its  canons  and  its  creed, 
precisely  as  they  existed  in  the  Vatican  :  and  it  was  no  less 
jealous  of  its  authority,  and  severe  in  the  punishment  of  its  here- 
tics, than  was  the  original  foundation  of  St.  Peter. 

Henry,  in  fact,  did  not  for  an  instant  desire  the  abolition  of 
Catholicism,  for  he  was  probably  as  sincere  in  his  own  profes- 
sion of  that  faith,  as  a  man  of  his  fierce,  impulsive,  uncontrolla- 
ble, and  sensual  nature  could  be  sincere  in  any  religion.  Nor 
did  he  desire  to  destroy  papacy  itself — so  far  from  it,  that  he 
desired  ardently  and  strove  earnestly  to  perpetuate  it,  in  a 
divided  form,  making  himself  the  Pope  of  England. 

At  an  after  period,  he  was  compelled  by  the  resistance  of 


ANNE    ASCUE.  195 

the  monastic  bodies  to  secularize  the  possessions  of  the  abbeys 
and  monasteries  throughout  the  land,  and  to  drive  out  the  monks 
and  nuns  from  their  time-honored  residences,  bestowing  their 
broad  acres  and  rich  tithes  on  lay  proprietors,  or  on  the  colle- 
giate institutions  of  which  he  was  a  munificent  founder  and 
benefactor.  Stiil,  for  the  most  part,  the  dispossessed  church- 
men were  in  some  degree  provided  for  by  pensions  and  the 
like,  while  all  the  incumbents  of  church  preferment,  all  the 
priests  officiating  at  all  churches,  whether  urban  or  rural,  were, 
of  course,  of  the  old  religion. 

The  reformers  were  everywhere  regarded  by  kings  and 
governments  with  more  or  less  of  political  suspicion  and  dis- 
trust, as  well  as  of  religious  abhorrence  ;  and  in  fact  it  was  not 
wonderful  that  such  should  be  the  case,  for  many  of  their 
earliest  and  wildest  sects — such  as  the  fanatical  followers  of 
Huss  and  John  Zisca,  and  many  of  the  Albigenses,  Lollards, 
and  Waldenses — held  to  opinions  utterly  subversive  of  all 
government  both  civil  and  social,  affecting  a  levelling  of  all 
classes  and  conditions,  and  some  of  them  were  insisting  on  the 
abominable  and  disgusting  tenets  of  Fourier  and  the  modern 
socialists  in  regard  to  sexual  relations.  This  reason  would 
have  been  enough  in  itself  to  have  steeled  the  heart  and  armed 
the  hand  of  Henry  against  all  the  true  and  thorough-going 
reformers ;  as  it  was  unquestionably  in  other  days  the  cause  of 
his  great  and  manly-minded  daughter's  unrelenting  persecution 
of  the  puritans  and  dissenters,  whom  she  in  truth  punished  as 
assailants  of  the  prerogatives  of  her  crown,  not  as  schismatics 
beyond  the  pale  of  her  church. 

And  indeed  it  is  remarkable  to  this  day,  that  the  followers 
of  the  Romish  church  are  invariably  the  most  subordinate  to 
discipline,  and  obedient  to  authority  no  less  political  than  reli- 
gious, and  that  in  direct  proportion  as  sects  withdraw  them- 


196  PERSONS   AND    PICTURES. 


«* 


selves  farther  and  farther  from  that  church  so  do  they  recede 
from  the  sentiment  of  loyalty,  and  from  submission  to  political 
government.  So  that  in  almost  every  case  the  extreme  dissen- 
ter will  be  found  the  extremest  dissenter. 

How  far  this  may  have  weighed  with  Henry  and  prompted 
him  to  the  cruel  rigor  with  which  he  repressed  the  advance  of 
protestant  reform,  is  not  so  directly  apparent  as  it  is  in  the 
case  of  his  daughter  Elizabeth  ;  but  as  Henry  in  no  respect 
lacked  political  shrewdness  or  foresight,  though  he  at  times 
suffered  his  violent  passions  to  prevail  against  the  maxims  of 
sound  statesmanship,  and  as  no  king  ever  lived  who  was  more 
jealous  of  his  authority,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  he 
clearly  foresaw  the  parallel  and  contemporaneous  spread  of 
liberal  feelings  in  matters  of  church  and  state,  of  religious  and 
political  reform.  But  apart  from  this,  he  had  the  stern  and 
obstinate  veneration  of  the  bigot  for  his  own  creed — a  venera- 
tion enhanced  in  his  proud  and  despotical  mind  by  the  consi- 
deration that  it  was  his  own — a  consideration  which  led  him  to 
regard  all  dissent  from  it  as  an  affront  in  some  degree  personal 
to  himself. 

Besides  this,  he  prided  himself  on  his  learning  and  orthodoxy 
as  a  theologian,  on  his  subtilty  as  a  polemical  casuist,  and 
on  his  eloquence  as  a  religious  disputant;  so  that  vanity,  self- 
ishness, bigotry,  and  interest  all  urged  him  to  the  infliction  of 
the  cruellest  punishments  on  the  wretches  who  differed  from 
the  tenets  of  the  catholic  church,  and  held  opinions  at  va- 
riance to  his  own,  especially  on  the  question  of  the  "  real 
presence." 

So  far,  therefore,  was  Henry  from  being  a  religious  reformer, 
or  a  favorer  of  protestantism,  that  the  condition  of  the  Lollard, 
the  protestant  reformer,  or  the  heretical  disbeliever  in  any  of 
the  peculiar  doctrines  of  the  Eomish  church,  was  infinitely 


ANNE    ASCUE.  197 

more  perilous  than  that  of  the  most  violent  and  steadfast 
catholic  who  held  out  to  extremity  for  the  supremacy  of  the 
Pope.  The  latter  might  indeed  be,  and  very  probably  was, 
arraigned  for  high  treason,  brought  to  trial,  and  beheaded  for 
political  criminality. 

The  former  was  very  certain,  in  case  of  suspicion  falling  on 
him,  to  be  incarcerated,  interrogated  before  the  council ;  to  be 
preached  at  and  disputed  with  by  the  king  in  person,  to  be 
racked  with  unmerciful  severity  in  order  to  extort  from  him 
confession  concerning  his  own  belief,  and  the  persons  of  his  co- 
religionists ;  and  lastly,  if  resolute  in  his  belief  and  steadfast  in 
refusing  to  abjure  it,  or,  as  it  was  the  mode  then  to  term  it,  obsti- 
nate in  his  contumacy,  to  be  burned  alive  at  the  stake,  as  had 
been,  and  still  were  to  be,  so  many  martyrs  to  what  they  equally 
believed  on  both  sides  to  be  the  cause  of  conscience  and  truth. 

Henry  indeed  was  scarcely  second  in  his  persecution  of  here- 
tics, and  his  predilection  for  autos-da-fe,  to  the  barbarous 
and  bigoted  Philip  of  Spain,  though  his  butcherings  and 
burnings  were  on  a  more  limited  and  less  general  scale. 
Terrible,  however,  they  were,  and  atrocious,  and  of  them  no 
worse  or  more  sad  example  is  recorded  than  in  the  instance 
of  the  beautiful  and  good  Anne  Ascue. 

There  was  not  at  that  day  in  all  England,  it  was  said,  a 
lovelier  being  than  Anne  Ascue  ;  and  being  highly  born  and 
bred,  closely  connected  with  many  of  the  chief  ladies  of  the 
court,  and  among  others  with  the  queen  Catherine  herself,  she 
became  herself  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments  of  that  gay 
circle,  so  that  the  charms,  which,  had  she  been  less  prominently 
elevated  before  the  eyes  of  men,  would  have  only  perhaps  ob- 
tained for  her  the  honor  of  being  the  "  toast  of  a  county,"  were 
now  talked  of  far  and  wide,  and  herself  followed  and  flattered 
by  all  the  gallants  of  the  capital,  nay ;  but  by  royalty  itself. 


198  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Of  the  very  highest  stature  to  which  a  woman  can  attain 
without  forfeiting  one  feminine  attraction,  Anne  Ascue  was  at 
once  slenderly  and  voluptuously  formed,  her  perfectly  symme- 
trical and  rounded  figure  was  full  of  every  grace,  whether  in 
repose  or  in  motion,  and  its  soft  and  undulating  outlines 
impressed  the  spectator  with  an  idea  of  a  perfect  harmony 
between  the  proportions  of  the  delicate  and  balanced  figure,  and 
the  composed  and  happy  soul  which  informed  it.  Her  com- 
plexion was  as  fair  as  can  be  imagined,  and  her  face  so  pale, 
that  it  was  only  at  moments  of  the  strongest  emotion  that  even 
a  transient  flush  was  seen  to  color  it ;  still  there  was  nothing  of 
unhealthy  or  livid  pallor  in  the  clear,  life-like,  and  transparent 
huelessness  of  those  pure  cheeks,  while  the  rich  sentient  lips, 
colored  with  the  rose  tints  of  the  deep  clove  carnation,  vouched 
for  the  ruddy  hue  of  the  warm  current  which  flowed  through 
her  large  blue  veins.  Her  foreheac*  was  almost  too  high, 
too  solid  and  intellectual  for  that  of  a  woman,  giving  at  first 
sight  the  idea  of  a  character  too  grave  and  thoughtful, 
perhaps;  too  self-composed  and  tranquilly  great  to  condescend 
to  be  moved  by  any  of  the  small  sublunary  emotions,  the 
passing  pleasures,  transient  sorrows,  the  gentle  affections,  the 
daily  cares,  which  make  up  the  sun  of  this  mortal  life. 
And  this  character  was  even  enhanced  by  the  long  straight 
dark  brown  eyebrows,  curved  into  no  regular  symmetric 
curve  of  beauty,  but  crossing  the  broad  marble  forehead  with 
a  delicate  yet  decided  line,  full  of  pureness  and  character. 
One  glance,  however,  of  the  deep  black  fringed  azure  eyes, 
when  they  were  lifted  to  your  face  flashing  with  limpid 
merry  lustre,  and  laughing  in  their  own  clear  light — one 
smile  from  those  red  lips  wreathing  her  cheeks  and  chin  into 
a  score  of  radiant  dimples — you  could  not  doubt  that  you  saw 
in  Anne  Ascue, 


ANNE    ASCUE.  199 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ; 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death ;] 

The  reason  jirm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 

A  perfect  woman  nobly  planned 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command, 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright, 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

Such  indeed  she  was  in  disposition,  and  neither  care  nor 
education  had  been  spared  in  order  to  render  her  acquired 
gifts  equal  to  and  worthy  of  her  natural  endowments.  She  was 
not  only  accomplished — as  we  use  the  word  of  our  ladies  in  this 
latter  day — in  the  knowledge  and  familiar  use  of  modern 
tongues,  a  beautiful  and  almost  inspired  musician,  a  chaste  and. 
graceful  dancer,  a  fearless  and  elegant  equestrian,  but  she  was 
learned  in  the  sense  in  which  we  speak  of  men,  and  of  but  few 
men,  too,  of  this  age  and  country — though  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury it  was  by  far  less  rare  than  it  is  in  the  nineteenth,  to  find 
the  blithest  and  most  radiant  ladies  reading  the  immortal  bards 
of  old  in  their  original  classic  tongues — and  Anna  could  read 
not  only  Plato  and  the  tragedians  in  their  own  dialect,  redolent 
of  all  the  attic  honey  of  Hymettus,  but  could  follow  the  sages 
and  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament  through  the  grand  metaphors 
and  magnificent  hyperboles,  which,  a  part  and  parcel  of  all 


200  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

oriental  languages,  belong  to  none  more  thoroughly  than  to  the 
noble  and  sonorous  Hebrew. 

Better  for  her,  however,  had  it  been,  in  this  world  at  least, 
had  her  studies  been  confined  to  the  light  melodies  of  Southern 
bards  ;  had  the  smooth  and  effeminate  Italian,  the  gay  and 
gentle  Provencal,  or  the  statelier  Spanish  tongues  been  her 
highest  acquisition.  Better  had  it  been  for  her,  had  her  com- 
panions with  whom  she  loved  to  converse,  now  mirthfully,  now 
gravely  and  on  deeper  lore,  been  the  gay  gallants  of  the  court, 
rather  than  the  deep  designing  churchmen,  the  wily  Romish 
priests  and  cardinals,  who,  ever  fearful  of  seeing  yet  more  of 
their  power  escaping  from  their  clutch,  were  making  the  most 
desperate  efforts  to  establish  Catholicism  on  the  broadest  base ; 
and  for  that  end  to  detect,  discover,  or,  if  needs  must  be,  to  make 
heretics  in  the  highest  places,  for  the  purpose  of  publicly 
degrading,  and  as  publicly  destroying  them.  At  this  moment, 
the  catholics  were  extremely  powerful  at  court,  Wriothesley, 
the  chancellor,  who  had  succeeded  Audley,  and  was  deeply 
attached  to  the  Romish  party,  never  ceasing  to  inflame  the 
king,  on  all  occasions,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  against  all 
heretics  and  reformers,  and  constantly  exacerbating  his  rancor 
against  them,  by  representing  the  dangers  which  he  was  incur- 
ring, not  only  to  the  safety  of  his  realm,  but  to  the  salvation  of 
his  immortal  soul,  by  overlooking  in  the  least  degree  the  obsti- 
nate contumacy  of  these  levellers  of  all  social  right,  and  subvert- 
ed of  all  authority,  human  or  divine. 

Nor  did  the  jealousy  of  the  cruel,  old,  suspicious  tyrant,  whose 
habitual  peevishness  was  now  increased  by  illness,  need  any 
farther  stimulus.  As  he  became  aware  that  his  own  latter  day 
was  approaching,  it  really  seemed  as  if  he  feared  that  he  should 
be  deprived  of  the  privilege  of  shedding  a  due  quantity  of  blood 
.  before  his  own  demise ;  as  if  he  dreaded  that  any  victim  should 


ANNE    ASCUE.  201 

escape  his  rancor.  His  own  queen  Catharine,  whose  sweet, 
gentle  temper,  moderate  and  circumspect  life,  united  to  an  extra- 
ordinary degree  of  tact,  talent,  and  insight  into  her  husband's 
character,  had  enabled  her  to  retain  his  esteem  and  affections 
for  so  many  years,  now  fell  under  his  suspicions.  It  was  his 
favorite  habit  to  converse  on  points  of  theology ;  and  Catharine, 
whose  good  sense  enabled  her  to  converse  well  on  all  subjects, 
fell  in  some  degree  into  the  snare,  and  being  secretly  inclined 
to  the  doctrines  of  the  reformers,  suffered  him  to  discover  too 
much  of  her  mind  on  the  subject.  Henry  consulted  Gardiner 
and  Wriothesly,  and  both  of  them  encouraging,  nay,  urging 
him  to  extreme  measures,  he  ordered  articles  of  impeachment  to. 
be  drawn  against  her.  Her  fate  was  quivering  in  the  balance ; 
a  hair  would  have  turned  the  scales.  For  though  she,  with 
rare  tact  and  ingenuity,  represented  that  in  her  conversations 
with  the  king  she  had  only  feigned  to  differ  from  him,  in  order 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  being  conquered  by  his  eloquence,  and 
instructed  by  his  superior  erudition,  the  old  savage  still  doubted  ; 
and  on  one  occasion  is  said  to  have  exclaimed,  in  reply  to  her 
defence — "  Not  so  !  by  St.  Mary  !  Not  so  !  you  are  now  become 
a  doctor,  Kate,  and  better  fitted  to  give  than  receive  instruc- 
tion." Had  he  continued  in  that  mood  many  hours,  the  head 
of  Catharine  Parr  had  rolled  on  the  same  scaffold  with  that  of 
the  gentle  Anna  Boleyn,  that  of  the  shameless  Catharine  How- 
ard ;  she  was  saved,  but  saved  only  by  vicarious  blood — by 
the  agonies  and  death  of  a  most  pure  and  spotless  victim. 

For  at  this  time  charges  were  brought  against  Anne  Ascue, 
the  friend  and  maid^f  honor  of  the  queen,  that  she  dogmatized 
in  secret  on  the  most  delicate  questions  of  doctrine,  and  more 
especially  that  she  denied  the  "  real  presence." 

At  first  she  openly  avowed  her  opinions,  which  scarcely,  it 

would  seem,  amounted  to  such  a  degree  of  dissent  as  the  Inqui- 

10 


202  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

sition  itself  would  pronounce  heresy.  Henry,  however,  was  fu- 
rious that  a  woman's  weakness  should  dare  to  dispute  on  points 
of  reason  with  his  manly  understanding,  and  resolved  that  no 
indulgence  should  be  shown  to  her ;  and  Henry's  ministers, 
hopeful  that  if  put  to  the  rack  she  would  accuse  other  great 
ladies,  and  perhaps  the  queen  herself,  whose  friend  and  confi- 
dante she  was  known  to  be,  determined  that  whatever  was  to  be 
the  end,  she  should  not  escape  the  horrors  of  the  question. 

She  was  prevailed  upon  indeed  by  Bonner  to  make  a  seeming 
recantation,  but  it  was  either  in  reality  insufficient,  or  it  was 
determined  to  consider  none  that  she  could  make  as  satisfac- 
tory. She  was  cast  into  prison,  where  she  spent  her  time  in 
fortifying  her  mind  by  prayers  and  religious  exercises  to  endure 
the  horrible  extremities  which,  as  she  now  perceived,  too  cer- 
tainly awaited  her.  She  even  wrote  to  the  king,  and  told  him 
"  that  as  to  the  Lord's  supper,  she  believed  as  much  as  Christ 
himself  had  said  of  it,  and  as  much  of  his  divine  doctrine  as  the 
church  itself  required."  Still,  as  she  refused  her  assent  to 
Henry's  polemical  explanations  and  interpositions  of  authority, 
she  was  sentenced,  as  she  had  expected,  to  be  burned  alive  at 
the  stake  as  an  heretic. 

But  even  this  extremity  failed  to  shake  her  ;  she  prayed  fer- 
vently for  power  from  heaven  to  endure  her  agonies  with  equa- 
nimity, and  for  pardon  upon  those  who  for  no  cause  had  con- 
signed her  to  a  fate  so  barbarous. 

But  even  the  little  remnant  of  her  life  was  not  to  be  per- 
mitted to  elapse  without  an  aggravation  of  cruelty  and  horrors. 
Wriotheslyj  the  chancellor,  was  sent  to  interrogate  her,  as  to 
the  religious  tenets  of  the  great  ladies  in  correspondence  with 
her,  and  above  all  of  the  queen  herself — but  Anne,  although 
she  knew  all,  and  was  promised  a  free  pardon  if  she  would 
make  disclosures,  endured   the   extremity   of  the   rack  even 


ANNE    ASCUE.  203 

until  all  the  joints  of  her  body  were  entirely  dislocated,  in  pro- 
found and  resolute  silence.  Then,  horror  of  horrors  !  when  she 
would  make  no  confession,  the  chancellor  commanded  and 
reiterated  his  commands,  to  increase  the  tension  of  the  rack  yet 
further,  and  when  the  lieutenant  of  the  Tower  still  refused,  that 
truculent  minister  put  his  own  hand  to  the  wheel,  and  almost 
tore  her  body  in  twain.  Still  no  confession  followed  ;  and  reluc- 
tantly they  left  her  for  execution  on  the  morrow. 

And  now  the  last  day  had  arrived;  the  fatal  morn  had 
broken  in  the  east,  and  Anne  p  awoke  from  the  disturbed  and 
fitful  slumbers  which  had  not  sufficed  to  render  her  unconscious 
of  the  tortures  which  she  endured  throughout  every  portion  of 
her  rent  and  dislocated  frame — awoke  only  to  the  knowledge 
that  these  tortures  were  to  be  ended,  within  a  few  short  hours, 
by  a  death  the  most  agonizing  that  the  human  imagination  can 
conceive,  or  human  fortitude  endure. 

Serene  and  quiet  to  the  last,  she  baffled  all  the  malice  of  her 
enemies  by  her  gentle  and  uncomplaining  fortitude,  and  by  the 
unexampled  constancy  with  which  she  had  borne  all  agonies  of 
the  rack  without  a  word  of  confession,  by  the  saint-like  tran- 
quillity with  which  she  looked  forward  to  her  release  through 
the  medium  of  the  last  anguish. 

The  fatal  moment  arrived,  and,  unable  to  stand  erect,  even 
when  chained  to  the  stake,  so  thoroughly  wrenched  asunder 
were  all  her  joints,  she  was  carried  in  a  chair  to  the  stake,  and 
so  endured  her  appalling  doom. 

Three  others  perished  with  her  for  the  same  crime,  and  by 
the  same  awful  death — Nicholas  Bellerian,  a  priest,  and  two 
others  of  humbler  station,  but  all  with  the  same  constancy,  all 
with  the  same  confidence  of  receiving  the  reward  of  martyrdom 
in  a  crown  of  everlasting  and  immortal  glory. 

One  trial  more  awaited  them — for  when  they  were  already 


204  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

bound  to  the  stake ;  with  the  torches  already  kindled  around 
them,  a  free  pardon  was  offered  to  them  on  condition  of  their 
recantation.  But  not  one  of  the  number  faltered,  or  flinched 
from  the  horrid  ordeal.  Silent  and  serene  they  looked  on  as 
the  executioners  kindled  the  pile  which  was  to  consume  them, 
and  without  a  groan  or  shriek  they  endured  that  last  worst  tor- 
ment. The  flames  soared  up  to  the  abhorrent  and  indignant 
heavens,  and  bore  upwards  on  their  raging  volumes  four  souls, 
acceptable  to  their  Creator. 

Never  was  there  a  more  unjust  or  pitiable  doom,  never  a 
nobler  or  more  constant  example  of  courage  in  a  holy  cause  of 
fidelity  in  the  last  extremity,  than  was  seen  in  the  fate,  and 
shown  in  the  conduct  of  young,  beautiful,  and  true  Anne 
Ascue. 

She  died  for  her  religion  and  her  queen  ;  but  the  memory  of 
her  shall  be  green  and  fresh  for  ever  in  the  hearts  of  men,  when 
that  of  the  mistress  to  save  whom  she  perished  shall  be  forgot- 
ten, and  that  of  the  cruel  bigot  who  condemned  her  shall  be 
detested  in  all  lands,  and  through  all  ages.  Honor  eternal  to 
Anne  Ascue ! 


Sntn>  #rnj  w&  (MM  Mkj. 


1554. 


JANE  GREY  AND  GUILFORD  DUDLEY. 


There  was  a  pleasant  summer  parlor  in  an  old  Elizabethan 
mansion,  as  we  are  wont  nowadays  to  call  the  buildings  of  the 
era  of  the  Tudors,  although  many  were  built  long  before  the 
time  of  that  great  princess,  and  this  of  which  I  speak  among 
the  rest — overlooking  from  its  oriel  windows  a  wide  stretch  of 
park  and  chase,  varied  by  dells  and  dingly  hollows,  and  inter- 
spersed with  clumps  and  groves  of  magnificent  timber  trees,  all 
falling  away  in  a  long,  gentle  descent  to  the  southwestward,  so 
that  the  eye  could  range  for  miles  over  the  open  country,  until 
it  rested,  far  on  the  horizon's  verge,  on  one  of  the  stateliest  of 
English  rivers,  and,  yet  beyond  that,  on  an  extensive  mass  of 
forest,  empurpled  now  by  the  haze  of  distance  and  near  ap- 
proaching sunset. 

It  was  a  pleasant  parlor,  hung  with  rich  tapestries  of  green, 
inwrought  with  scenes  of  the  chase,  deer  in  full  cry,  and  hounds 
in  hot  pursuit,  foresters  winding  their  bugles  with  puffed  cheeks 
or  spearing  mighty  boars,  nobles  with  falcons  on  their  fists,  and 
gentle  demoiselles  reining  their  jennets  of  Castile  or  Andalusia, 
and  all  the  pride  and  pomp  of  the  mimicry  of  warfare.  The 
level  sunbeams,  streaming  in  through  the  latticed  casements, 
filled  the  whole  apartment  with  misty  golden  lustre,  played  lov- 
ingly on  the  books  and  ornaments  which  crowded  the  great 


208  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES.  ^ 

central  table,  and  kindled  into  warmer  hues  the  dark  wainscot- 
ing of  the  carved  ceiling,  the  huge  sculptured  mantel-piece,  and 
the  embossed  doorways ;  but  it  fell  upon  nothing — where  all 
was  beautiful  and  rare — so  rare  or  beauteous  as  the  young  girl, 
for  she  was  scarcely  woman  yet,  who  sat  on  the  cushioned  win- 
dow-seat of  that  oriel  window,  with  the  sunset  rays  playing 
about  her  light  brown  hair,  her  delicate  and  pensive  features, 
and  her  slender  though  symmetrical  form,  like  a  lambent  glory. 
She  was  reading  in  a  huge  velvet-covered,  brass-clasped  folio, 
which  lay  on  a  desk  before  her,  and  that  so  intently  that  she 
appeared  to  take  no  note  of  the  gay  sights  and* exciting  sounds 
which,  all  that  livelong  day,  had  been  sweeping  past  the  win- 
dows, within  reach  of  her  abstracted  eyes,  and  ringing  in  her 
ears  unheeded.  For  the  chase  was  sport  without,  gayer  and 
more  enlivening  than  it  was  depicted  within  ;  bloodhounds  were 
baying  until  the  deep  woods  rebellowed  their  harmonious  dis- 
cords ;  bugles  were  winded  far  and  near ;  coursers  were  pranc- 
ing and  plumes  waving,  and  ladies  cantering  across  the  lily  leas, 
eager  to  mark  the  towering  goshawk  swoop  on  the  soaring 
heron. 

Yet  from  noon  till  it  was  now  nearly  night  had  that  fair  girl 
sat  there  engrossed  in  her  studies,  though  friends  and  kinsmen 
— and  one  more  dear,  alas  !  than  friend  or  kinsman — was  chas- 
ing down  the  sun  in  the  gay  sport ;  and  never  once  had  she 
upraised  those  deep  blue  eyes  from  those  quaintly  charactered 
vellum  pages,  although  his  charger  had  curveted*  within  sight, 
and  his  view-holloa  swelled  the  breeze  within  hearing. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  still  unheard  by  the  young  stu- 
dent, who  read  on,  unconscious  that  she  had  a  spectator  pre- 
sent at  her  studies.  It  was  a  tall,  spare,  dark-featured  man,  of 
sixty  years  or  over,  with  a  thick  grizzled  beard  falling  down 
square-cut  on  his  breast,  and  wearing  the  trencher  cap  and  flow- 


JANE    GREY   AND    GUILFORD    DUDLEY.  209 

ing  black  robes  which  were  then,  as  now,  the  distinctive  garb  of  the 
universities.  His  features,  naturally  grave,  not  stern,  relaxed 
into  a  placid  and  benevolent  smile,  and  an  unbidden  tear-drop 
sparkled,  he  knew  not  why,  in  his  heavy  lashes. 

"  Ha !  gentle  lady,"  he  said,  advancing  slowly  towards  her, 
u  indeed  you  are  an  earnest  and  right  studious  student  for  one 
of  such  years  as  most  men  hold  better  befitted  to  gay  and 
mirthful  pastime ;  what  be  thy  studies,  my  fair  daughter,  this 
bright  evening,  when  the  hunt  is  up,  and  all  the  world,  saving 
you  only,  are  afield  and  merry  V 

"  Oh,  Master  Roger  Ascham,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  arising  with 
a  bright  smile  to  greet  her  friend,  the  preceptor  of  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  of  England — "  Oh,  Master  Roger  Ascham,  you  have 
surprised  me.  But,  indeed,  Plato  is  my  most  choice  favorite, 
and  his  sweet  eloquence  and  all  persuading  wisdom  delight  me 
far  beyond  all  pleasures  they  can  reap  from  all  their  sport  and 
gaiety." 

"  Yet  Dudley  is  among  them,  daughter,"  replied  the  old  man 
with  a  quiet  smile. 

* "  Ah  !  Master  Ascham !"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  blush  aris- 
ing for  a  moment  to  her  fair  cheeks  and  brow,  lifting  her  finger 
in  half  playful  reproof;  and  then  she  added  with,  a  smile,  "  but 
Guilford  Dudley  is  not  Plato,  father ;  and  though  his  company 
is  very  pleasant,  I  doubt  if  from  his  converse  I  should  reap  so 
much  good,  excellent  though  it  be  and  gentle,  as  from  this 
wondrous  Phsedon." 

"You  are  wise,  daughter,  excellent  wise  and  good,  for  one 
of  your  years,  so  gay  of  wont,  and  thoughtless,"  replied  the  old 
man,  with  something  of  a  sigh  breathed  from  a  smiling  lip  ; 
for  the  aged  wise  are  apt  to  associate,  even  the  least  superstitious 
of  them,  something,  I  know  not  what,  of  premature  decay  with 

10* 


210  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

early  wisdom.  "  It  is  my  fervent  prayer  that  your  maturity  be 
no  less  happy  than  your  youth  is  promising." 

"  Why  should  it  not  be  happy,  father !"  she  replied.  "  I 
am  most  happy  now.  All  are  so  kind  and  affectionate  to  me ; 
and  then " 

"  And  then  what,  fair  daughter  ?" 

Again  the  faint  blush  rose  to  her  cheek  for  an  instant ;  but 
she  answered  in  an  unfaltering  and  clear  tone  of  her  silver  voice 
— "  I  was  thinking  of  him,  Master  Ascham."  She  spoke  of 
her  youthful  lord,  to  whom  she  had  been  so  lately  wedded. 
"  My  life,  hitherto,  has  been  but  one  long,  long  spring  day  of 
unmixed  sweetness,  without  one  cloud  to  overshadow  it,  one 
shower  to  drown  its  rosebuds." 

"  God  grant,  in  his  goodness,"  said  the  old  man  solemnly, 
"  that  your  life  henceforth,  my  sweet  daughter,  may  advance 
into  the  blush  and  flower  of  perfect  summer,  and  decline,  peaceful 
as  an  autumn  sunset,  dying  away  in  a  flood  of  heavenly  glory." 

u  Amen  !  good  Master  Ascham.  But  you  seem  sad  to-night ; 
it  is  not,  I  trust,  that  you  have  any  cause  for  melancholy  ?" 

"  It  is  not  melancholy  ;  it  is  only  thought,  my  daughter  ;  the 
old  are  wont  to  grow  more  thoughtful,  as  they*  have  the  less 
hold  on  earth,  and  the  more  hope,  we  will  trust,  of  heaven. 
But  of  a  truth — for  why  should  I  deceive  you  ? — I  have  heard 
tidings  that  in  some  sort  disquiet  me  ;  that  make  me  thought- 
ful, yet  glad  withal  at  finding  you  so  studious  and  so  wise  ;  that 
make  me  hope  you  will 'know  how  to  hold  fast  of  your  philoso- 
phy." 

"  What  are  your  tidings,  father  ?"  she  inquired  timidly,  yet 
eagerly  withal — for  there  was  something  in  his  manner  that 
almost  alarmed  her,  while  at  the  same  time  it  excited  all  her 
woman's  wonder. 

"  The  King  is  dead,  Jane." 


JANE  GREY  AND  GUILFORD  DUDLEY.  211 

"  Dead !  Gentle  Ed  ward  dead  !  My  excellent  good,  cousin 
dead  !  So  virtuous,  so  wise  for  his  youth ;  so  young  for  his  wis- 
dom !  Oh,  father,  but  this  is  very,  very  sad.  Oh,  father,  I 
have  lost  a  friend." 

"  Pray  God,  you  ne'er  may  feel  the  loss  of  one." 

But  she  scarce  heard  his  words,  fpr,  her  short  and  broken 
ejaculations  ended,  she  had  bowed  her  gentle  head  upon  her 
knees,  and  was  weeping  silently,  with  the  big  heavy  tears  trick- 
ling through  the  slender  fingers  in  which  her  face  was  buried ; 
and  while  she  wept,  the  kind  grave  tutor  left  the  apartment,  to 
bear  the  sad  news  of  her  half  brother's  death  to  his  own  im- 
mediate charge,  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  thereafter  the  great 
woman-king  of  England  ;  and  when  she  raised  her  eyes  again, 
the  Lady  Jane  Grey  was  alone  with  her  sorrow. 

Yes,  fair  and  gentle  reader — if  any  of  the  fair  and  gentle  deign 
to  lend  an  ear  to  a  too  sad  and  too  true  tale — she,  whom  you 
have  seen  seeking  amusement  while  her  gay  comrades  were  re- 
joicing in  their  festive  sports  of  old,  not  in  the  pages  of  the  last 
new  novel,  but  in  the  grand  original  of  the  old  Greek  philoso- 
pher, was  not  less  fair  than  thou,  and  not  less  youthful ;  of  no- 
bler birth  than  thine,  for  hers  was  royal ;  like  thee,  the  cyno- 
sure of  all  eyes,  the  beloved  of  all  beholders ;  and  yet  she  read 
Plato  in  the  original  Greek,  rose  at  six  in  the  morning,  and 
went  to  rest  not  long  after  the  birds  flew  to  their  roosts ;  and 
of  a  certainty  would  have  blushed  deeper  than  she  ever  did 
blush,  had  she  beheld  revealed  the  modern  mysteries  of  the 
fashionable  waltz,  or  the  more  fashionable  Redowa  polka.  She 
was  Jane  Grey,  at  that  instant,  by  the  letters-  patent  of  King 
Edward,  granted  on  his  death-bed,  Queen  of  England.  Alas ! 
for  her,  the  beautiful,  the  innocent,  the  young — forced  by  the 
rude  ambition  of  her  husband's  kinsmen  from  the  sweet  priva- 
cies, to  her  sp  lovely  and  delicious,  into  the  thorny  seat  of  Eng- 


212  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

land's  royalty.  Yes !  though  she  knew  it  not,  nor  surely 
wished  it,  even  at  that  hour,  while  she  was  weeping  the  un- 
timely death  of  her  young  cousin,  Jane  Grey  was  England's 
queen. 

It  must  be  remembered  in  this  place  that  Henry  VIII.,  short- 
ly before  his  death,  declared  his  only  son  his  successor,  under 
the  title  of  Edward  VI.,  under  the  government  of  a  council,  one 
of  whom  was  Dudley,  Viscount  Lisle,  the  Admiral  of  England, 
agreeably  to  the  destination  of  Parliament.  After  Edward  and 
his  heirs,  the  Lady  Mary  was  named  first,  and  the  Lady  Eliza- 
beth second,  in  order  of  succession,  with  this  proviso,  that  if 
either  should  marry  without  the  consent  of  the  council,  she 
should  forfeit  the  crown  for  herself  and  her  posterity.  Failing 
the  heirs  of  his  own  body,  he  passed  over  the  heirs  of  his  eld- 
est sister,  the  Queen  of  Scots,  in  accordance  with  an  act  of  par- 
liament, and  settled  the  succession  on  Frances  Brandon,  Mar- 
chioness of  Dorset,  eldest  daughter  of  his  second  sister  the 
French  queen,  and,  after  her,  on  Eleanor,  Countess  of  Cumber- 
land, her  second  danghter.  But  he  subjoined  that,  after  these, 
the  crown  should  descend  to  the  lawful  heirs,  thus  leaving  it 
open  to  a  question,  and  thence  to  a  contest,  whether  he  meant 
thereby  entirely  to  exclude  the  Scottish  line,  who  were  actually 
the  next  heirs  before,  not  after,  the  house  of  Suffolk. 

By  a  succession  of  events,  intrigues,  and  acts  of  violence  and 
iniquity,  which  do  not  of  right  belong  to  this  sketch,  Dudley, 
Viscount  Lisle,  the  son  of  that  Dudley  who,  with  Sir  Richard 
Empson,  was  executed  in  the  first  year  of  Henry  VIII.  for  ex- 
tortion during  the  reign  of  his  father,  afterwards  created  Earl 
of  Warwick,  gradually  undermined  and  finally  overthrew  the 
protector,  Somerset,  who  ultimately  perished  on  the  scaffold, 
himself  succeeding  to  his  dignity  and  office  under  the  title  of 
Duke  of  Northumberland.     That  title  he   obtained,  together 


JANE    GREY    AND    GUILFORD    DUDLEY.  213 

with  all  the  great  estates  of  the  Percy  family  in  the  north, 
which  was  still  the  most  warlike  part  of  England,  by  grant 
from  the  young  king ;  as  the  late  Earl  of  Northumberland  hav- 
ing died  without  issue,  and  his  brother,  Sir  Thomas  Percy,  hav- 
ing been  attainted  for  his  share  in  the  Yorkshire  insurrection 
during  the  reign  of  Henry,  the  title  was  now  extinct,  and  the 
lands  were  vested  in  the  crown.  This  done  he  proceeded,  be- 
ing a  man  of  extraordinary  capacity  and  ability,  both  for  peace 
and  war,  and  of  ambition  not  inferior  to  his  parts,  on  his  course 
of  aggrandizement,  by  persuading  the  new  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Suffolk  to  give  their  daughter,  the  Lady  Jane  Grey,  who 
was  the  next  of  kin,  and  heiress  to  the  Marchioness  of  Dorset, 
in  marriage  to  his  fourth  son,  the  Lord  Dudley  Guilford. 
Thereafter  he  negotiated  a  marriage,  whereby  to  strengthen  him- 
self by  further  great  alliance,  between  Catharine  m  Grey,  Jane's 
younger  sister,  and  Lord  Herbert,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke, giving  at  the  same  time  his  own  daughter  in  marriage 
to  Lord  Hastings,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon.  These 
marriages  being  celebrated  with  extraordinary  pomp  and  splen- 
dor, while  the  young  king  was  languishing  and  like  to  die, 
moved  extreme  indignation  among  the  people  at  large,  who 
hated  Northumberland  in  proportion  as  they  had  loved  the  re- 
gent, Somerset,  whom  he  had  caused  to  be  put  to  death,  as  well 
as  for  his  intolerable  haughtiness  and  overbearing  pride. 

About  this  time  Edward  VI.,  a  prince  of  the  most  amiable 
disposition,  and  by  no  means  without  parts,  whose  only  fault 
was  something  of  intolerance  towards  the  Catholics,  and  an 
overleaning  to  ultra  Protestants  or  puritanic  doctrines,  fell  ill, 
being  seized  with  a  cough  which,  yielding  to  neither  regimen 
nor  medicines,  speedily  degenerated  into  consumption. 

So  soon  as  this  fact  came  to  the  knowledge  of  Northumber- 
land, he  applied  himself  forthwith  to  the  execution  of  his  plans 


214  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

with  renewed  vigor.  He  took  care  that  none  but  his  own 
creatures  should  be  about  the  person  of  the  king,  and,  paying 
him  constant  visits,  under  pretence  of  great  solicitude  for  his 
health,  he  found  it  easy  to  work  upon  his  religious  feelings,  and 
to  create  much  alarm  in  his  mind  concerning  the  safety  of  the 
Protestant  Church,  should  so  bigoted  a  Catholic  as  the  Lady 
Mary  was  known  to  be  succeed  to  the  throne  of  England. 

Mary,  he  represented,  was,  moreover,  illegitimate,  her  mother's 
marriage  having  been  pronounced  incestuous  and  null.  This 
he  was  easily  induced  to  believe  in,  and  he  readily  acquiesced  in 
depriving  her  of.  her  rights  in  succession  :  but  it  was  far  more 
difficult  to  bring  him  to  pass  over  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  to  whom 
he  was  tenderly  and  sincerely  attached,  and  against  whom  no 
such  cause  of  exclusion  existed,  she  being,  no  less  than  himself, 
a  sincere,  though  scarcely  zealous,  Protestant. 

Means  were  at  length  found,  however,  by  which  to  convince 
him  that  both  sisters  having  been  alike  pronounced  by  act  of 
Parliament  illegitimate,  it  was  not  possible  to  exclude  the  one 
to  the  preference  of  the  other  on  that  plea,  since  the  act  of  ille- 
gitimacy was  a  bar  against  both  in  the  same  degree,  nor  could 
be  valid  in  the  one  case  and  void  in  the  other.  On  these 
grounds  letters  patent  were  granted  by  the  king,  setting  aside 
both  his  sisters  of  the  half  blood  as  illegitimate,  and  settling 
the  succession  on  the  Lady  Jane  and  the  heirs  of  her  body  after 
his  demise. 

Although  the  council,  who  were  all  creatures  of  Northum- 
berland, easily  assented  to  this  iniquitous  proceeding,  it  was 
not  without  great  difficulty,  nor  until  a  special  commission  was 
passed  by  the  king  and  council  commanding  them  to  do  so, 
and  a  free  pardon  granted  them  in  case  they  should  incur  of- 
fence by  their  compliance,  that  the  judges  would  draw  a  new 
patent   of  settlement   of  the  crown.     When    the  patent  was 


JANE  GREY  AND  GUILFORD  DUDLEY.  215 

brought  to  the  chancellor,  the  Bishop  of  Ely,  he  refused  pe- 
remptorily to  affix  the  great  seal  thereunto,  unless  it  should  be 
previously  signed  by  all  the  judges ;  and  though  the  others  finally 
assented,  after  much  violence  and  menace  from  Northumberland, 
Sir  James  Hales,  though  a  zealous  protestant,  could  not  be 
brought  to  do  so.  In  like  manner,  when  the  privy  councillors 
were  called  upon  to  sign,  Cranmer  resisted  long,  and  at  last 
yielded  only  to  the  earnest  and  pathetic  entreaties  of  the  youth- 
ful king. 

Thus,  in  spite  of  the  late  king's  will ;  in  spite  of  act  of  par- 
liament ;  in  spite  of  the  laws  fundamental  of  the  land  ;  against 
the  acknowledged  order  of  hereditary  succession  ;  against  all 
rule  and  precedent,  the  two  daughters  of  the  late  king,  Mary 
and  Elizabeth,  were  arbitrarily  and  illegally  set  aside,  and  the 
crown  settled  on  the  heirs  of  the  Duchess  of  Suffolk ;  for  she 
herself,  though  living,  waived  the  perilous  dignity  in  favor  of 
her  daughters,  the  ladies  Jane  and  Catharine  Grey,  and  their 
posterity. 

And  thus,  although  neither  of  them  knew  it  then,  when 
Roger  Asci^m  left  her  presence,  the  Lady  Jane  was  de  facto 
queen  of  England. 

What  follows  is  sad  history.  On  the  following  morning,  after 
a  fruitless  effort  to  entrap  the  princesses  Mary  and  Elizabeth,  in 
which,  had  he  succeeded,  to  judge  of  the  unscrupulous  nature 
and  proceedings  of  this  bold  bad  man,  their  tenure  even  of  the 
barren  right  of  succession  would  have  been  but  of  short  dura- 
tion, Northumberland  waited  on  the  Lady  Jane,  accompanied 
by  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  and  others  of 
their  partisans,  and  tendered  to  her  their  allegiance  with  all  the 
respect  and  honor  due  to  a  sovereign  prince. 

It  was  with  equal  grief  and  astonishment  that  the  amiable 


216  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  lovely  girl  learned,  for  the  first  time,  the  plots  which  had 
been  entered  into,  and  that  too  successfully,  in  her  behalf. 

Of  the  same  age  with  Edward,  she  had  been  his  friend,  his 
companion,  and  his  fellow  student;  had  acquired  with  him,  and 
even  more  than  he,  a  perfect  and  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
Greek  and  Eoman  classics,  reading  them  fluently  in  the  origi- 
nal, and  also  with  the  modern  languages,  in  several  of  which 
she  conversed  as  easily  as  in  the  vernacular.  Her  favorite 
amusement  was  the  pursuit  of  elegant  and  graceful  letters ;  her 
preferred  mode  of  life  was  retirement — with  her  lord,  to  whom 
she  had  given  not  her  hand  only,  but  her  whole  heart,  with  all 
its  rich  store  of  delicate  and  feminine  attachments — in  some  se- 
questered rural  residence,  where  they  might  live  alone  with  na- 
ture and  their  books, 

"  The  world  forgetting,  of  the  world  forgot." 

To  such  a  mind,  rarely  endowed  with  talents  and  attainments, 
and  possessed  wholly  by  such  sentiments  and  tastes,  it  needs 
not  to  say  that  the  splendid  glare  of  courts,  the  perilous  ways 
of  ambition,  and  the  thorns  which  to  a  proverb  lujjk  within  the 
circle  of  the  diadem,  offered  no  pleasure,  no  allurement. 

Her  affection,  moreover,  to  the  late  king,  and  her  regard  for 
the  Princess  Elizabeth,  led  her  to  consider  even  a  lawful  occu- 
pation of  the  throne  as  an  act  of  ingratitude,  if  not  treason. 

She  wept,  when  the  crown  was  offered  to  her,  even  more  bit- 
terly than  she  had  wept  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  Edward ; 
for  those  were  tears  of  sorrow  and  sisterly  affection — these  were 
in  some  sort  tears  of  remorse,  in  some  sort  of  sad  and  dark  fore- 
boding. She  argued  earnestly,  though  gently — for  all  her  cha- 
racter was  of  gentleness — against  her  own  elevation  tp  the  pe- 
rilous height  of  royalty.  She  pleaded  the  superior  right  of  the 
two  princesses  to  the  crown ;  expressed  her  conviction  of  the 


JANE    GREY   AND    GUILFORD    DUDLEY.  21 7 

danger  of  embarking  on  an  enterprise  so  criminal  and  danger- 
ous ;  and  at  length,  when  urged  to  the  point,  decidedly  refused 
to  accept  the  proffered  honor.  In  vain  Northumberland  argued 
and  insisted  ;  nay,  he  almost  threatened,  yet  could  he  not  pre- 
vail ;  nor  was  it  until  the  entreaties  and  caresses  of  her  young 
husband,  whose  ambition,  it  would  seem,  was  dazzled  by  the 
prospect  of  the  crown  matrimonial,  that  she,  at  length,  reluc- 
tantly and  tearfully,  and  with  many  hesitations  and  forebodings, 
consented  to  ascend  that  fatal  eminence. 

"  It  was  then  usual,"  says  Hume,  "for  the  kings  of  England, 
after  their  accession,  to  pass  the  first  days  in  the  Tower ;  and 
Northumberland  immediately  conducted  thither  the  new  sove- 
reign. All  the  councillors  were  obliged  to  attend  her  to  that 
fortress ;  and  by  this  means  became,  in  reality,  prisoners  in  the 
hands  of  Northumberland,  whose  will  they  were  necessitated  to 
obey.  Orders  were  given  by  the  council  to  proclaim  Jane 
throughout  the  kingdom  ;  but  these  orders  were  executed  only 
in  London,  and  the  neighborhood.  No  applause  followed ;  the 
people  heard  the  proclamation  with  silence  and  concern ;  some 
even  expressed  their  scorn  and  contempt." 

Of  such  a  commencement  it  required  no  prophet's  eye  to 
discern  the  disastrous  conclusion.  The  fact  appears  to  have 
been,  that  as  yet  the  mass  of  the  people  comparatively  cared 
but  little  about  religious  matters ;  that  the  respect  and  singular 
affection  for  Henry  VIII.,  which  had  always  dwelt  in  the  popu- 
lar breast,  was  by  no  means  extinguished  ;  and  that  the  hatred 
against  the  Dudleys,  on  account  of  the  execution  of  the  Sey- 
mours, was  still  paramount.  Moreover,  although  the  masses 
were  certainly  disposed  to  regard  the  marriage  between  Henry 
VIII.  and  Catharine  of  Aragon  as  unlawful,  they  were  by  no 
means  prepared  to  consider  the  issue  of  that  marriage  illegiti- 
mate, seeing  that  it  had  been  entered  into  under  the  authority 


218  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

of  the  church,  and  without  suspicion  of  wrong  by  the  parties. 
Otk  all  sides,  therefore,  the  gentry  and  nobility  of  Suffolk, 
with  their  servants  and  retainers,  flocked  to  the  standard  of 
Mary  in  Suffolk,  whither  she  had  fled  for  refuge  on  the  first  in- 
telligence of  the  conspiracy.  Ere  long,  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon, 
who  had  been  sent  by  the  council  to  make  levies  for  the  Lady 
Jane  in  Buckinghamshire,  carried  his  forces  over  to  Mary  ; 
while  the  very  fleet  which  Northumberland  dispatched  to  cruise 
on  the  coast  of  Suffolk,  deserting  him,  sailed  into  Yarmouth, 
and  declared  for  the  queen  dejure. 

Northumberland  himself,  when,  after  in  the  first  instance 
sending  out  Suffolk  to  command  the  forces,  doubting  his  capa- 
city to  lead  them,  he  marched  forth  in  person,  observed  the  su- 
pineness,  if  not  the  disaffection  of  the  people,  and  commented 
on  it  to  the  Lord  Grey :  "  Many,"  he  said,  "  come  out  to  look 
upon  us ;  but  I  find  not  one  who  cries  '  God  speed  you  I'  " 

His  forebodings  were  right  speedily  proved  true  ;  for,  finding 
himself  unequal  to  cope  with  Mary  in  the  field,  and  sending  in 
to  the  councillors  for  reinforcements,  those  gentlemen,  with  Pem- 
broke at  their  head,  obtaining  egress  from  the  Tower,  as  if  to 
obey  their  orders,  at  once  'shook  off  and  denounced  his  usurped 
power,  unsheathed  their  swords  for  Mary  Tudor,  and  proclaimed 
her  in  the  midst  of  great  applause  from  the  people. 

Suffolk,  who  commanded  in  the  Tower  for  the  Lady  Jane,  at 
once  laid  down  his  arms,  and  gave  up  the  keys  ;  while  the  mes- 
sengers who  were  sent  off  with  orders  to  command  Northumber- 
land to  forbear  further  resistance,  which  must  perforce  be  fruit- 
less, found  that  he  had  already  disbanded  his  followers,  and  pro- 
claimed Queen  Mary,  although  too  late  to  save  his  head. 
Throughout  the  country,  as  Mary  approached  the  metropolis, 
she  was  greeted  with  general,  almost  unanimous  loyalty ;  and 
before  entering  the  gates  was  joined  by  her  sister  Elizabeth,  at 


JANE    GREY   AND    GUILFORD    DUDLEY.  219 

the  head  of  a  thousand  horse,  which  she  had  raised  to  act 
against  the  usurper ;  thus  giving  evidence  in  her  girlhood  of 
what  she  would  do  in  after  years  for  the  protection  of  her  throne, 
and  her  own  country's  freedom,  in  a  more  desperate  struggle 
and  against  a  far  mightier  foe. 

All  the  conspirators  and  abettors  in  this  desperate  act  of  trea- 
son were  of  course  arrested,  brought  to  trial,  and  sentenced  ; 
and  among  them,  innocent  and  unhappy  children — mere  tools 
and  victims  of  ambitious  traitors,  Jane  Grey  and  Guilford  Dud- 
ley. In  the  commencement  of  her  reign,  however,  Mary  affect- 
ed, if  she  were  not  really  inclined  to,  a  clemency,  which,  it  is 
very  certain,  nothing  in  her  latter  career  showed  to  be  natural 
or  congenial  to  her  hard,  cold,  cruel  nature. 

None  suffered,  at  that  time,  save  those  whom  no  modern 
casuistry  or  apologetic  clemency  could  deny  to  be  justly  slain — 
Northumberland,  the  arch  mover  and  executor  of  the  plot,  and 
his  subordinates,  Sir  Thomas  Palmer  and  Sir  John  Gates.  No 
more  of  slaughter,  at  this  time,  was  the  consequence  of  this  ill- 
timed  and  absurd,,  yet  at  the  same  time  most  iniquitous  and 
desperate,  conspiracy. 

Dudley  and  the  Lady  Jane,  being  neither  of  them  as  yet 
seventeen,  and  being  evidently  and  before  all  eyes  guiltless,  so 
far  as  intent  of  all  complicity  in  the  treason,  it  would  not  have 
been  politic  in  any  case  to  have  them  brought  to  the  scaffold. 
Their  youth,  their  innocence,  their  beauty,  alike  conciliated  the 
people  in  their  favor,  and  to  have  brought  them  to  judgment 
then  would  probably  have  been  to  jeopard  all  the  vantage-ground 
won,  and  perhaps  to  risk  a  second  outbreak  in  the  name  of 
Jane  Grey. 

But  Mary  knew  not  how  to  pardon  ;  and,  though  they  were 
not  put  to  death,  they  were  committed  to  the  Tower,  that  "  den 
of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes" — that  dungeon-keep, 


220  PERSONS    AND   PICTURES. 

wherein  so  many  good,  so  many  wise,  so  many  noble,  and  so 
many,  great  of  the  sons  of  men,  had  been  immured  for  years, 
to  glut  the  scaffold  with  their  gore. 

How  they  passed  the  weary  months  which  ensued  is  covered 
with  a  gloom  impalpable,  inscrutable,  though  there  is  too  much 
reason  to  believe  that  they  were  not  allowed  even  the  poor  con- 
solation of  sharing  the  sorrows  which  would  have  been  alle- 
viated by  participation. 

But,  like  all  other  human  things,  those  months  came  to  an 
end,  and  brought  to  an  end  likewise  the  sorrows  of  that  bright 
and  fair  young  couple. 

On  the  publication  of  the  articles  of  marriage  between  Mary 
of  England  and  Philip  of  Spain,  a  violent  insurrection  broke 
out  in  several  parts  of  England,  and  had  any  foreign  prince 
supported  the  insurgents  with  his  countenance,  it  is  probable 
that  she  would  have  lost  her  kingdom.  As  it  was,  although 
fbr  a  short  time  Mary  was  all  but  overtaken  and  surprised  by 
her  rebels,  it  was  in  the  end  suppressed  with  great  ease,  and 
avenged  by  merciless  and  bloody  executions.  ,  For  Mary,  now  for 
the  first  time  giving  free  scope  to  her  natural  disposition,  re- 
velled in  blood  and  cruelty.  Could  she  by  any  means  have 
effected  it,  she  would  have  sent  her  sister  Elizabeth  to  the  scaf- 
fold ;  but,  as  she  was  expressly  acquitted  by  the  dying  declara- 
tion of  Wyatt,  the  chief  of  the  insurgents,  she  concentrated 
her  bloody  rage  on  the  heads  of  Jane  and  Dudley.  No  further 
trial  was  needed,  the  old  sentence  being  still  on  record  and  in 
force.  Warning  was  sent  to  the  Lady  Jane  that  she  must  now 
prepare  for  death,  a  fate  which  she  had  long  expected  tacitly, 
and  which — in  the  consciousness  of  innocence  and  the  weari- 
ness of  life — she  perhaps  desired  as  a  boon,  rather  than  dreaded 
as  a  penalty.  To  the  arguments  of  the  Catholic  divines  with 
which  Mary's  zeal  assailed  her  last  moments — and  I  believe  this 


JANE  GREY  AND  GUILFORD  DUDLEY.  221 

zeal  may  be  regarded  as  sincere,  not  simulated — she  replied 
firmly  and  consistently  in  defence  of  her  own  religion  ;  and 
after  this  she  wrote  a  letter  to  her  sister  in  the  Greek  tongue, 
encouraging  her  to  hold  fast  to  her  faith  in  every  trial,  and  to 
maintain,  in  every  fortune,  a  like  steady  perseverance. 

When  the  day  of  her  execution  arrived,  her  husband  sent  to 
request  a  parting  interview,  which  she  declined,  informing  him 
that  the  tenderness  of  their  parting  would  overcome  the  fortitnde 
of  both ;  while  their  separation  would  be  but  for  a  moment. 

She  even  stood  at.  her  window  and  watched  to  see  him  led 
forth  to  execution,  when  she  waved  to  him  a  parting  token,  and 
then  awaited  calmly  the  return  of  the  cart  with  Guilford's 
headless  body ;  for,  though  it  had  been  at  first  intended  that 
both  should  suffer  together  on  one  scaffold  on  Tower  Hill,  it 
was  deemed  prudent  to  avoid  the  risk  of  stimulating  the  com- 
passion of  the  people  for  their  innocence,  and  youth,  and  beauty, 
into  fury  for  their  unmerited  judicial  murder,  and  it  was  resol- 
ved that  they  should  suffer  singly  within  the  precincts  of  that 
bloody  building. 

When  his  body  was  brought  back,  and  her  turn  had  come, 
she  expressed  herself  but  the  more  strengthened  by  the  reports 
of  the  constancy  with  which  he  had  met  his  doom,  and  de- 
scended the  dark  stairway  which  led,  not  metaphorically,  to  the 
grave,  not  bravely  but  cheerfully,  as  though  she  longed  to  join 
him  who  had  gone  before  on  the  dark  path  which  leads  to  life 
immortal,  whether  for  weal  or  woe  eternal. 

To  the  constable  of  the  Tower,  who  asked  her  for  "  some 
small  present  which  he  might  preserve  as  an  everlasting  remem- 
brance," she  gave  her  table-book,  containing  the  last  words  she 
should  ever  write — three  sentences  in  Greek,  Latin,  and  English, 
which  she  had  just  inscribed  therein  on  seeing  the  headless 
corpse  of  her  loved  lord. 


222  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

When  she  reached  the  scaffold,  she  delivered  a  short  speech, 
taking  the  whole  blame  on  herself,  without  one  word  of  re- 
proach or  complaint  against  the  needless  cruelty  of  her  doom '; 
admitting  that  she  had  erred  against  the  laws  of  her  land,  and 
declaring  that  she  was  willing  to  make  satisfaction  to  them, 
but  averring  that  she  had  sinned  not  in  grasping  too  greedily 
the  crown,  but  in  not  refusing  it  more  steadfastly.  Filial  obe- 
dience and  reverence  to  her  parents,  she  said,  acting  on  youth 
and  ignorance,  and  by  no  means  ambition,  had  brought  her  to. 
this  pass.  And  she  concluded  by  stating  that  she  hoped  the 
story  of  her  fate  might  prove  useful  to  the  world,  by  proving 
that  innocence  itself  is  no  excuse  for  misdeeds,  if  they  be  inju- 
rious to  the  commonwealth.  Then,  causing  herself  to  be  dis- 
robed by  her  women,  she  submitted  herself  with  a  serene  coun- 
tenance to  the  blow  of  the  executioner. 

She  died,  yet  lives  for  ever — lives  in  the  memories  and  affec- 
tions of  her  countrymen — lives,  doubtless,  among  the  saints  of 
heaven  in  everlasting  glory  :  for,  if  there  was  ever  yet  a  woman 
who  was  almost  a  saint,  while  on  this  earth,  that  woman  was 
Jane  Grey. 


Clijototlj  tfute  k  Jffiinj  Stuart 


1568. 


ELIZABETH  TUDOR  AND  MART  STUART. 


The  greatest  and  most  fortunate  of  queens — the  loveliest  and 
most  hapless  of  women..  They  might  have  been  friends  and 
sisters,  as  they  were  sister  queens  of  one  fair  island,  then,  for 
the  last  time,  divided  ;  fortune  and  fate,  and  that  worst  curse  of 
sovereigns  as  of  nations,  religious  dissension,  rendered  them  ene- 
mies ;  and,  as  in  such  case  ever  must  be,  the  weaker  of  the  two 
was  shipwrecked  in  the  strife.  They  were,  moreover,  nearly 
akin ;  and  this,  which  should  have  been  a  source  of  amity  and 
good  will,  was,  on  the  contrary,  the  cause  of  rivalry,  hostility, 
suspicion,  and  finally  of  the  death  of  one,  and  of  a  dark  blot 
on  the  escutcheon  of  the  other. 

Elizabeth,  the  second  daughter  of  the  most  arbitrary  and 
absolute  king  who  ever  sat  upon  the  throne  of  England,  Henry 
VIII.,  and  of  his  favorite  wife,  who  was  the  people's  favorite 
also,  ascended  the  throne  of  England — after  the  successive  deaths 
of  her  brother  Edward  VI.,  a  weak  minor,  and  her  elder  sister 
Mary,  a  hard-hearted  bigot,  whose  memory  is  to  this  day  a  re- 
proach to  England  and  accursed  of  her  people — amidst  the 
general  acclamations  and  sincere  delight  of  all  classes.  Her 
accession  had  been  long  looked  forward  to  as  the  oil  that  was  to 
assuage  the  troubled  sea  of  contending  factions,  the  sweet  balm 
that  was  to  heal  the  wounds  of  persecution.     She  found  a  peo- 

11 


226  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

pie  nearly,  if  not  absolutely,  united;  for  the  barbarities  of 
Mary,  while  they  had  but  increased  the  zeal,  and  added  the 
prestige  of  martyrdom  to  the  cause  of  the  protestants,  had 
alienated  the  moderate  catholics;  and,  indeed,  disgusted  all 
classes  of  Englishmen,  with  whom  religious  toleration,  and  even 
indifference,  had  been  a  more  usual  phase  of  the  public  senti- 
ment than  anything  leaning  towards  cruelty  or  coercion.  Thus, 
both  religious  parties  greeted  her  advent  to  the  throne,  and 
that  sincerely ;  for  the  catholics  apprehended,  as  a  body,  no 
severe  retaliation  from  the  hands  of  a  princess  known  to  be  mo- 
derate and  politic,  rather  than  splenetic  and  rash ;  and  the  pro- 
testants were  too  happy  at  obtaining  quiet,  peace,  and  tolera- 
tion, to  desire  in  their  turn  to  become  persecutors.  Compas- 
sion, moreover,  was  a  further  sentiment  in  her  favor  ;  for  she 
had  conducted  herself  with  rare  prudence  du  ring  her  sister's 
reign ;  and  the  imminent  and  instant  peril  in  which  she  lived 
until  Mary's  death  had  rendered  her  an  object  of  general  sym- 
pathy, even  among  the  catholic  party. 

She  came  to  the  throne  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  years,  the 
whole  of  which  time  she  had  passed  in  a  subordinate,  always 
humiliating,  and  often  dangerous,  position.  No  adulation  of 
courtiers,  no  loud  lip-loyalty  of  shouting  thousands,  had  foster- 
ed her  youthful  mind's  worst  passions.  Neglected,  scorned  as 
illegitimate,  imperilled  as  heretic,  she  had  lived  with  her  studies, 
had  communed  with  herself  and  the  world  of  the  mighty  dead, 
more  than  with  modern  men  or  manners.  Her  tutor  had  been 
the  famous  Roger  Ascham  ;  and,  although  the  education  which 
he  bestowed  upon  her  was,  of  a  surety,  what  we  should  now 
deem  better  suited  for  the  male  than  for  the  female  sex,  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  it  was  such  as  befitted  one  who  was  to  fill 
the  place  of  a  king  in  England,  and  to  contend  against  the 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  227 

greatest  powers  and  and  princes  of  Europe  for  her  own  crown 
and  her  country's  liberties. 

Already,  when  she  climbed  the  steps  of  that  proud  throne, 
had  she  learned  one  mighty  lesson,  had  proved  herself  capable 
of  one  grand  triumph  :  major  adversis*  she  had  shown  herself 
already ;  the  harder  task  lay  yet  behind,  to  exhibit  herself,  as 
so  few  have  done  of  mortals,  par  eecundis.-* 

In  person  she  was  tall,  well  formed,  and  majestic  rather  than 
graceful  in  carriage  and  demeanor;  her  features,  which  it 
were  impossible  to  call  handsome,  were  still  striking,  from 
the  great  intelligence  and  power  of  mind  which  they  evinced ; 
and  although  her  hair  was,  in  truth,  of  that  hue  which  men 
call  red,  there  were  not  wanting  poets — according  to  Homer, 
they  should  have  been  gods — to  celebrate  it  in  immortal  verse 
as  golden.  To  conclude,  it  may  be  said  that  Elizabeth,  even  as 
a  private  woman,  would  probably,  in  any  society,  have  attracted 
attention  by  the  graces  of  her  person  only  ;  although,  assuredly, 
no  one  in  his  senses  would  have  dreamed  of  calling  her  beauti- 
ful, or  of  choosing  her  as  his  wife  for  her  personal  or  mental 
loveliness.  Her  character  is  a  strange  one  ;  and  one  especially, 
that  cannot  be  summed  up  in  a  sentence.  In  order  to  attempt 
to  do  so,  I  must  be  paradoxical,  and  assert  that,  in  her  virtues 
she  was  purely  masculine,  and  feminine  only  in  her  vices.  Of 
male  virtues  she  lacked  not  one  ;  of  female  virtues  she  scarce 
possessed  any.  She  had  courage,  fortitude,  patience,  shrewd- 
ness, sagacity  ;  was  not  without  a  sort  of  lion-like  generosity, 
and  would  not  have  deserted  a  friend,  or  betrayed  her  county, 
to  be  the  winner  of  eternal  empire.  Gentleness,  softness,  ten- 
derness, compassion,  mercy,  sympathy — of  these  words  she 
scarce  seems  to  have  known  the  meaning.  Dependence,  trust, 
reliance,  save  in  herself  and  her  own  matchless  powers,  she 

*  Superior  to  adversity.         f  Equal  to  prosperity. 


228  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

knew  not.  Yet,  of  the  smaller  feminine  vices,  she  had  full 
measure  and  overflowing.  Vain  as  the  silliest  coquette  that 
flirts  and  languishes  her  hour  in  any  modern  ball-room  ;  capri- 
cious as  the  moon,  and  yet  more  changeful ;  irascible  as  the 
Dead  Sea;  jealous,  exacting,  amorous  at  once  and  cold;  fawning 
with  the  cat's  velvet  touch,  and  anon  scathing  with  the  tiger's 
unsheathed  talons. 

Her  passions  were  her  armory — fatal  to  others,  powerless  against 
herself.  Her  love  of  power  was  her  ruling  masculine  propen- 
sity. To  it,  manlike,  she  sacrificed  affection,  the  love  of  progeny, 
the  delights  of  home ;  yet  womanlike,  she  pined  for  them,  even 
while  she  sacrificed  them  ;  and,  doubly  womanlike,  she  hated 
all  those  who  adopted  and  enjoyed  them  ;  and  avenged  upon 
more  than  one  of  her  best  servants  his  entering  on  the  to  her 
forbidden  pleasures  of  the  married  life,  with  a  malignity  and 
spite  that,  on  any  other  grounds,  are  inexplicable.  As  a  man 
she  had  been,  perhaps,  the  greatest  who  ever  trod  the  earth  ; 
for,  as  I  have  said,  all  her  vices,  all  her  crimes,  arose  from  the 
natural  strugglings  and  eruptions  of  a  feminine  nature,  smother- 
ed beneath  the  iron  will,  and  conquered  by  the  indomitable 
ambition,  of  a  masculine  mind.  Yet  that  feminine  nature  was 
ineradicable  still,  and  was  only  the  more  distorted  and  depraved 
as  it  was  wrested  the  further  from  its  true  and  legitimate  direc- 
tion. 

As  a  woman,  in  private  life,  had  she  closely  resembled  what 
she  was  in  public,  she  had  been  simply  hateful,  odious,  and  con- 
temptible ;  but  probably  she  had  not  been  such.  As  it  is,  the 
fairest  way  of  judging  her  appears  to  be,  as  Hume  has  observed 
with  his  usual  shrewdness,  to  consider  her  simply  as  a  person 
of  strong  common  sense,  placed  in  authority  over  a  great  nation 
in  very  dangerous  times,  and  doing  her  duty  to  that  nation 
manfully  always,  and,  in  the  main,  honestly  and  truly  ;  but,  by 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  229 

the  very  vis  and  vigor  with  which  she  devoted  herself  to  pub- 
lic, unfitting  herself  for  private  life  ;  and  therefore,  in  her  pri- 
vate relations,  unamiable,  imperious,  cruel,  false,  capricious,  and 
a  tyrant  unto  death. 

Nursed,  from  her  cradle  to  her  womanhood,  in  the  rough 
arms  of  adversity,  she  was  thenceforth  to  her  death  the  child 
of  authority  and  fortune.     Yet  did  she  live,  did  she  die  happy  ? 

Her  rival,  Mary,  was  in  all  respects  nearly  her  opposite.  Her 
father,  James  V.,  of  Scotland,  was  the  son  of  that  unhappy 
James  IV.  who  fell  at  Flodden,  and  Margaret,  the  eldest  sister 
of  Henry  VOL,  and  therefore  was  the  first  cousin  of  Elizabeth. 
He  espoused  the  Duchess  of  Longueville,  the  sister  of  the  great 
Due  de  Guise,  and  the  others  of  that  powerful  and  almost  regal 
house,  which  during  so  many  reigns  held  the  reins  of  the  French 
government ;  and,  after  a  disturbed  and  unhappy  reign,  being 
defeated,  through  the  disaffection  of  his  nobles,  at  the  battle  of 
Solway,  by  a  mere  handful  of  English  spears,  fell  into  a  hope- 
less languor  and  decline,  so  that  his  life  was  despaired  of.  At 
this  sad  juncture,  news  was  brought  to  him,  he  then  having  no 
living  issue,  that  his  queen  was  safely  delivered ;  whereon  he 
asked,  was  it  a  male  or  a  female  child  ?  and,  being  informed 
that  it  was  the  latter,  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  exclaiming 
as  it  is  said,  "  The  crown  cam'  wi'  a  lassie,  and  it  will  awa'  wi' 
a  lassie  ;"  and  in  a  few  days  expired,  leaving  those  last  pro- 
phetic words  as  a  sad  legacy  to  his  infant  heiress. 

No  sooner  was  James  dead  than,  precisely  as  he  expected, 
Henry  determined  on  annexing  Scotland  to  the  English  crown 
as  an  appanage,  by  means  of  a  marriage  between  his  young  son 
Edward  and  the  infant  princess ;  and,  at  first,  fortune  seemed 
completely  to  favor  his  plans.  By  means  of  the  Scottish  nobles 
many  .of  whom,  and  of  high  rank,  had  fallen  into  his  hands  at 
the  disastrous  rout  of  Solway,  he  succeeded  in  negotiating  this 


230  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES.  * 

marriage.  The  Cardinal  Primate  of  Scotland,  Beaton,  who 
had,  it  is  said,  forged  a  will  in  the  name  of  the  late  king,  ap. 
pointing  himself  regent,  with  three  other  nobles,  during  Queen 
Mary's  minority,  was  overpowered  and  committed  to  the  cus- 
tody of  Lord  Seton ;  while  James  Hamilton,  Earl  of  Arran, 
was  declared  governor.  It  was  thereafter  agreed  that  the  queen 
should  remain  in  Scotland  until  she  should  reach  the  age  of  ten , 
when  she  should  be  sent  to  England  to  be  educated  and  be- 
trothed to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Six  hostages  were  to  be 
delivered  to  Henry  for  the  faithful  performance  of  this  con- 
tract, and  it  was  stipulated  that  Scotland,  notwithstanding  its 
union  with  England,  should  retain  all  its  own  laws  and  privileges. 

Well  had  it  been  for  the  young  princess,  well  for  her  native 
land,  well  for  the  world  at  large,  had  that  contract  held  good  ! 
Long  years  of  intestine  strife — the  curse  of  religious  factions 
rabidly  warring  amid  the  feuds  of  hostile  houses,  the  savage 
bickerings  of  rival  clans,  the  fierce  and  persecuting  zeal  of  ig- 
norant and  intolerant  preachers,  had  been  spared  to  Scotland ; 
nay,  even  to  England,  it  may  be,  the  miseries  and  civil  wars, 
induced  by  the  accession  of  the  hapless  and  imbecile  house  of 
Stuart,  in  its  most  odious  and  imbecile  member,  might  have 
passed  over ;  and,  assuredly,  that  infant  queen  had  escaped  a 
life  of  misery,  a  death  of  horror. 

Scotland  was,  however,  at  this  time  altogether  catholic  ;  the 
reformation,  which  soon  afterwards  outstripped  with  rampant 
strides  its  progress  in  the  neighboring  kingdom,  taking  the  hard 
stern  rule  of  Calvin,  instead  of  the  mild  form  of  Lutheran  dis- 
sent, had  scarcely  drawn  as  yet  to  any  head.  Naturally, 
therefore,  the  pope  and  the  whole  of  catholic  Europe,  fearful 
of  the  spread  of  Henry's  recent  heresy,  were  willing  to  go  every 
length  te  preserve  Scotland  to  the  discipline  of  the  true  church. 
Beaton  escaped  from  custody — the  ecclesiastics  lent  him  all  their 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  231 

power  ;  the  hereditary  jealousy  of  England  was  revived  among 
the  martial  Scottish  nobles  ;  the  hostages  were  denied,  although 
the  captive  nobles  had  been  suffered  to  go  free  on  their  parole 
of  honor,  which  they  all  broke,  with  one  honorable  exception, 
Kennedy,  Earl  of  Cassilis,  who,  true  to  his  word,  returned  and 
surrendered  himself  to  Henry — an  honorable  action,  honorably 
rewarded  by  that  monarch,  who  at  once  set  him  free  without 
condition.  Enraged  beyond  all  bonds  of  moderation  by  this 
duplicity,  Henry  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  the  emperor, 
declared  war  at  once  on  Francis  and  on  Scotland,  and  waged  it 
unremittingly,  but  with  varied  success,  during  the  remainder  of 
his  life. 

After  Henry's  decease,  and  the  accession  of  Edward,  the  Pro- 
tector Somerset  prosecuted  the  Scottish  war  with  such  ability 
and  success  that,  after  the  victory  of  Pinkie  Cleugh,  one  of  the 
most  disastrous  to  the  Scottish  ever  fought  on  the  soil  of  Scot- 
land, it  was  perceived  at  once,  by  the  queen  dowager  and  the 
French  party,  that  the  only  safety  for  their  cause  lay  in  trans- 
porting the  young  queen  to  France.  Even  the  rival  faction  was 
brought  to  accede  to  this  plan,  by  the  consideration  that  the 
presence  of  the  queen  was  the  real  cause  of  the  English. war, 
and  by  the  natural  animosity  created  among  the  warlike  and 
high-spirited  nobles,  by  the  devastating  and  cruel  war  which 
raged  incessantly  on  the  frontiers.  When  little  more  than  six 
years  old,  then,  the  queen  was  conveyed  by  Villegaignon,  with 
four  galleys  under  his  command,  to  France,  where  she  was  at 
once  betrothed  to  the  dauphin,  son  of  Henry  H.,  of  France,  and 
Catharine  de  Medicis — afterwards,  for  a  short  space,  Francis  H. 

This  was  the  commencement — this,  in  truth,  the  cause,  of 
all  her  subsequent  misfortunes,  of  all  her  crimes,  of  all  her  sor- 
rows, of  her  long  imprisonment,  and  of  her  miserable  death.  A 
queen  of  Scotland,  she  was  brought  up  from  her  earliest  child- 


232  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

hood,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  French  woman.  Queen  of 
a  country  which,  ere  she  returned  to  dwell  in  it,  and  nominally 
to  rule  it,  had  become  obstinately,  bigotedly,  zealously,  I  might 
almost  say  fiercely,  calvinistic,  she  was  brought  up,  from  her 
e  arliest  childhood,  an  ultra  catholic — a  catholic  of  the  school 
and  house  most  detested  by  the  protestants  throughout  Europe, 
"  the  bloody  stock,"  as  the  covenanters  termed  it,  "  of  the  ac- 
cursed Guises."  Queen  of  a  country  whose  inhabitants  were, 
by  their  physical  nature,  grave,  stern,  solemn,  precise,  and  whom 
the  new  tenets  rendered  surly  and  morose,  she  was  brought  up, 
from  her  earliest  childhood,  a  queen,  as  it  were,  of  love  and 
beauty,  a  creature  of  levity  and  mirth,  a  being  to  whom  music 
and  minstrelsy,  the  dance,  the  pageant,  the  carousal,  and  the 
tournament — things  abominable  and  rank  in  the  nostrils  of  her 
puritanic  lieges — were  as  the  breath  of  life.  Last,  and  not  least, 
queen  of  a  country  the  most  rigidly  moral  in  Europe,  except  in 
the  article  of  feudal  homicide  and  vengeful  bloodshedding,  she 
was  brought  up  in  a  land  where  to  love^ar  amours  was  scarce- 
ly held  dishonorable  to  either  sex  ;  where  poisoning,  in  the  most 
artful  and  diabolical  methods,  was  an  everyday  occurrence; 
where,  in  a  word,  adultery  and  murder  were  the  rules,  and  not 
the  exceptions  of  society. 

On  this  period  I  have  been  compelled  to  dwell,  to  the  detri- 
ment, I  am  aware,  of  the  picturesqueness  of  my  narrative ;  for 
it  is,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  clue  and  the  key  to  all  that  follows. 

On  the  accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  crown  of  England,  Mary, 
then  but  sixteen  years  of  age,  was  already  married  to  Francis, 
the  dauphin  of  France ;  and,  failing  Elizabeth  and  her  issue, 
was  next  in  true  line  of  blood,  as  grand-daughter  of  Margaret, 
Henry  VIII.'s  eldest  sister ;  although  that  wilful  and  capricious 
monarch  had  passed  their  house  in  his  testament,  and  settled 
the  succession  on  his  second  sister's  posterity.     And  here  it 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  233 

must  be  remembered  that,  in  one  of  his  wicked  freaks,  Henry 
had  caused  Elizabeth  to  be  declared,  by  act  of  parliament,  ille- 
gitimate— and  in  his  unaccountable  caprice,  though  he  after- 
wards caused  the  succession  to  be  entailed  on  her  after  Edward 
and  Mary,  he  never  would  permit  the  repeal  of  the  act  of  ille- 
gitimacy. 

Consequently,  Elizabeth  being  illegitimate,  Mary  was,  by  the 
strict  letter,  de  jure  queen  of  England.  And  on  this  pretext, 
Henry  II.,  at  the  instigation  of  the  Guises,  forced  his  son  and 
Mary,  nothing  loth,  to  assume  both  the  arms  and  title  of  king 
and  queen  of  England.  A  woman  so  jealous,  and  a  sovereign 
so  shrewd,  as  Elizabeth,  was  not  to  be  misled  or  deluded  as  to 
the  object  of  such  a  measure.  She  knew  that  this  pretension 
was  intended,  on  opportunity,  to  be  converted  into  a  challenge 
of  her  legitimacy  and  title  to  her  crown. 

From  that  moment  she  was  seized  with  the  keenest  jealousy 
against  Mary ;  the  jealousy  of  a  queen,  and  of  a  woman,  wronged 
in  the  tenderest  point,  in  either  quality — her  crown  disputed,  and 
her  honorable  birth  denied.  To  this  were  also  added  the  true 
small  woman's  jealousy  and  spite  against  a  woman  fairer,  more 
beloved,  more  graceful.  For  Mary  was,  indeed,  lovely  beyond 
the  poet's,  painter's,  sculptor's  dream  of  loveliness  ;  the  perfect 
symmetry  of  form,  and  stature,  the  swanlike  curve  of  the  long 
slender  neck,  the  inimitable  features — and  yet  by  Hans  Holbein 
how  admirably  imitated — the  smooth  expanse  of  the  bland  fore- 
head, the  pencilled  curve  of  the  dark  brows,  the  melting  lustre  of 
the  deep  hazel  eyes,  the  luxuriance  of  the  rich  auburn  tresses,  are 
as  familiar  to  us  all,  of  this  distant  day,  as  though  we  had  our- 
selves beheld  them — and,  to  this  hour,  at  the  mere  name  of 
Mary  Stuart,  not  a  man's  heart,  who  has  a  touch  of  romance 
or  chivalry  within  him,  but  beats  something  quicker,  as  if  he 
were  in  the  very  presence,  and  breathing  the  very  atmosphere, 

11* 


234  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

of  superhuman  beauty.  And  these  glorious  gifts ;  these,  too, 
were  Mary's  enemies — in  the  end  were,  perhaps,  her  judges , 
executioners. 

But  my  limits  warn  me  that  I  must  not  linger  by  the  way. 
Henry  II.  fell,  in  a  tournament,  by  a  chance  thrust  of  the  splin- 
tered truncheon  of  a  lance  in  the  hand  of  Montgomery ;  and 
Francis  II.  was,  for  a  little  space,  the  King  of  France,  and  Mary 
was  his  queen,  and,  for  that  little  space,  the  happiest  of  the 
happy.  But  still,  alas  !  for  her,  she  quartered  the  three  English 
Lions  with  the  Fleurs  de  Lis  of  France — still  adhered  to  the 
fatal  style  of  Queen  of  France  and  England  ! 

In  proportion  as  the  Scottish  character,  when  left  in  repose,  is 
calm,  grave,  resolute,  and  thoughtful,  so  is  it,  when  agitated 
by  persecution,  or  lashed  into  anger,  vehement,  enthusiastic, 
bigoted,  savage  in  its  mood.  And  such  it  had  now  become  on 
both  sides.  The  rage  was  terrible,  the  hatred  insatiable,  the 
strife  incessant ;  and,  as  is  usual  in  equally  balanced  civil  or 
religious  factions,  each  looked  abroad  for  aid — the  catholics  to 
France,  the  protestants  to  England.  And,  on  the  instant, 
discerning  her  peril  while  it  was  yet  far  aloof,  sagacious, 
prompt,  and  possessing  the  advantage — immense  in  warfare — 
of  proximity,  Elizabeth  lent  aid  so  prompt,  so  powerful,  and  so 
effectual,  that  the  French  auxiliaries  were  compelled  to  evacuate 
Scotland,  never  to  return  thither  in  force ;  and  the  reform- 
ers gained  such  an  ascendency  that  they  were  never  again,  for 
any  considerable  period,  overawed  by  the  catholic  party,  which 
thenceforth  waned  in  Scotland  daily. 

By  these  most  wise  and  politic  steps,  Elizabeth  not  only 
secured  the  safety  of  her  own  realm  against  the  peril  of  a  joint 
French  and  Scottish  war,  brought  to  bear  on  her  only  assailable 
point,  the  northern  marches,  and  her  own  title  against  the 
claims  of  Mary,  but  she  created  for  herself  a  powerful  party  in 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  235 

the  heart  of  the  sister  kingdom,  by  which  she  was  regarded — as, 
indeed,  she  was  in  Switzerland,  Holland,  Germany,  nay,  in  the 
Huguenot  provinces  of  France  itself — as  the  friend  and  pro- 
tectress of  the  protestant  religion. 

Her  conquering  fleet  and  army  compelled  the  treaty  of  Edin- 
burgh, in  which  it  was  stipulated,  among  other  provisions  highly 
favorable  to  England,  "  that  the  King  and  Queen  of  France 
should  thenceforth  abstain  from  bearing  the  arms  of  England, 
or  assuming  the  title  of  that  kingdom." 

At  this  critical  moment,  Francis  II.  died  of  a  sudden  disorder, 
and  Mary  was  left  a  lovely,  youthful  widow  of  nineteen.  She 
desisted,  it  is  true,  after  the  death  of  Francis,  from  bearing  the 
arms  of  England ;  yet,  with  inconceivable  obstinacy  and  pride, 
she  refused  to  ratify  the  treaty  of  Edinburgh,  thereby  giving 
mortal  and  personal  offence  to  the  most  powerful  and  most 
unforgiving  of  queens  or  women. 

Shortly  after  this  event,  her  residence  in  France  being  ren- 
dered unpleasant  by  the  demeanor  of  the  queen-mother,  who 
hated  her,  she  determined  to  return  home,  and  asked,  through 
D'Oisel,  the  French  ambassador,  a  safe  conduct  through  Eng- 
land to  her  own  dominions.  This  Elizabeth  very  naturally 
refused  until  she  should  ratify  the  treaty  of  Edinburgh,  and  so 
demonstrate  that  she  had  relinquished  her  injurious  pretensions 
to  the  crown  of  England. 

Stung  to  the  quick,  high-spirited,  and  full  of  youthful  fire, 
Mary  delivered  a  reply  to  Throckmorton,  the  English  ambassa- 
dor, which,  though  mingled  with  courteous  expressions,  savored 
too  much  of  a  defiance  to  have  any  effect  but  that  of  increasing 
the  animosity  and  indignation  of  Elizabeth,  who  at  once 
equipped  a  fleet,  with  the  avowed  intent  of  putting  down  piracy 
in  the  Channel,  but,  doubtless,  with  the  real  purpose  of  inter- 
cepting Mary  on  her  homeward  voyage. 


236  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Phrase  it  as  they  might,  the  kinswomen  were  now  rival 
queens,  rival  beauties ;  for  Elizabeth,  too,  fancied  herself  a 
beauty.  The  cousins  were  thenceforth — until  death,  that  great 
disseverer  of  friendships,  that  sole  conciliator  of  feuds,  should 
separate  them — mortal  enemies. 

A  fog  favored  her  evasion ;  and  the  galley  which  bore  her 
sailed  unchallenged  through  the  centre  of  the  English  fleet.  It 
is  said  that  she  was  affected  with  a  strange  melancholy,  a  dim 
foreboding  of  future  woe,  as  she  sailed  from  Calais.  She  gazed 
on  the  land  which  had,  in  truth,  been  her  country,  until  its 
outlines  were  lost  in  the  haze  of  falling  night ;  and  then,  order- 
ing her  couch  to  be  spread  on  the  deck  at  fresco,  commanded 
the  pilot  to  awaken  her  should  the  coast  be  in  sight  at  daybreak. 
The  night  was  calm  and  breezeless,  and  the  ship  had  made  so 
little  way  that  the  first  sunbeams  fell  upon  the  sand-hills  nigh 
to  Calais.  Her  parting  words  are  yet  remembered  with  which 
she  bade  farewell  to  the  land  in  which  alone  she  knew  one  hour 
of  happiness  :  "  Adieu,  belle  France  ;  adieu,  France,  bien  cherie  ! 
Jamais,  jamais,  ne  te  je  reverrai  plus  /" 

Her  sad  forebodings  were  but  too  fatally  confirmed;  the 
sullen,  mutinous  brutality  of  the  calvinistic  rabble,  the  fierce 
and  atrocious  insolence  of  John  Knox,  the  rude  and  unknightly 
ferocity  of  the  reforming  nobles,  rendered  her  court  a  very  dun- 
geon. Although  she  made  no  effort  to  restore  the  ancient  reli- 
gion or  arrest  the  march  of  reformation,  her  own  profession  of 
the  Komish  creed  condemned  her  in  the  eyes  of  those  stern  reli- 
gionists ;  and  her  very  graces  and  accomplishments,  her  youth- 
ful gaiety  and  natural  love  of  innocent  pleasures,  caused  the 
ranting  preachers  of  the  calvinistic  church  to  denounce  her  to 
her  face,  as  a  "painted  Jezebel,"  a  "dancing  Herodias,"  a 
"  daughter  of  Belial ;"  and  it  is,  doubtless,  to  their  unprovoked 
insolence  and  unchristian  fury  that  must  be  ascribed  her  after 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  23*7 

errors,  indiscretions,  vices,  and — the  word  must  be  written,  for 
it  is  history,  not  fiction,  that  I  am  now  writing — crimes. 

Who  knows  not  the  dreadful  provocations  she  received — the 
cruel  and  ungrateful  neglect  of  the  stupid  and  unworthy  Darn- 
ley — the  base  and  bloody  butchery,  before  her  eyes,  of  the 
"  Italian  minion,"  Rizzio — when,  to  the  woman's  natural  weak- 
ness, was  added  the  debility  of  one  about  to  be  a  mother  ? 

Who  knows  not  the  horrible  catastrophe  of  the  Kirk  of  Field, 
and  Darnley's  miserable  murder,  contrived,  unquestionably,  by 
that  black-hearted  wretch,  Both  well,  thereafter  Duke  of  Orkney  ? 
Who  knows  not  the  sad  and  guilty  tale,  how  the  confederate 
lords  first  called  on  her  to  punish,  then  recommended  her,  under 
their  written  signatures — such  of  them,  at  least,  as  could  write — 
to  marry,  that  same  Both  well  ?  How  he  abducted  her  by  force, 
and  then  set  her  free  unscathed  ?  How  she  espoused  him,  and 
was  then  dethroned,  and  imprisoned  in  the  dreary  fortress  of 
Lochlorn,  by  the  very  lords  who  had  counselled  her  to  wed 
him ;  by  her  own  base-born  brother,  the  wise,  but  wicked, 
regent  Murray  ?  How  she  escaped  thence  by  the  devotion  of 
George  Douglas,  fought  the  disastrous  battle  of  Langside,  only 
to  see  her  last  friends  fall  around  her,  battling  to  the  last  in  vain 
for  Mary  and  the  church,  for  "  God  and  the  Queen,"  their  chi- 
valrous, their  loyal,  and  their  solemn  war-cry  % 

She  fled  to  England,  to  Elizabeth,  who  had  shown  sympathy 
thus  far,  shown  even  generosity,  in  her  behalf,  and  interposed 
her  offices  to  deliver  her  from  imprisonment ;  though  she  had 
hesitated  to  declare  war  on  the  regent,  fearing,  as  she  avowed, 
lest  open  war  should  drive  him  to  extremity.  In  this  I  believe 
she  spoke  truly.  For  it  suited  not  her  policy  to  allow  the  spec- 
tacle of  subjects  dethroning  a  lawful  sovereign  to  come  before 
the  eyes  of  the  world. 

When  once,  however,  she  had  the  hapless  Mary  in  her  power, 


238  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

all  generosity,  all  sympathy,  all  scruples  vanished.  Elizabeth 
was  no  longer  the  sister  queen,  the  cousin,  and  the  ally.  No ; 
if  not  yet  the  embittered  and  jealous  woman,  the  enemy  deter- 
mined on  her  victim's  death,  she  was,  at  least,  simply  and 
solely  the  Queen  of  England ;  the  resolute,  hard-minded,  poli- 
tic, ambitious  queen,  with  her  country's  interests  pre-eminent, 
above  all  things,  at  her  heart ;  the  woman,  who — to  use  her 
own  noble  words  delivered  to  her  troops  at  Tilbury,  when  the 
vast  arms  of  the  Invincible  Armada  were  outstretched  to  encir- 
cle her  England,  and  the  unconquered  infantry  of  Castile  were 
revelling  already,  in  anticipation,  in  the  beauty  and  the  wealth 
of  London — if  she  were  a  woman,  "  had  yet  the  heart  of  a  man 
within  her,  and  that  man  a  King  of  England." 

In  the  first  instance,  it  is  probable  that,  in  persuading  Mary 
to  undergo  the  degradation  of  standing  trial  for  the  assassina- 
tion of  her  husband,  against  her  own  rebellious  subjects,  her 
object  was  solely  to  gain  the  eminent  position  of  being  selected 
arbitress  between  a  sovereign  realm  and  its  dethroned  and  fugi- 
tive princess ;  and  that  she  had,  as  yet,  decided  nothing  of  her 
future  movements. 

Mary's  grand  error,  or  rather  the  grand  error  of  her  coun- 
sellors, was  the  submitting  to  the  trial,  under  any  show  or  pre- 
text. As  to  the  trial  itself,  it  seems  to  have  been  conducted' 
fairly,  so  far  as  we  can  judge ;  and,  as  it  was  broken  off  by  Mary's 
own  action,  we  must  admit  that  it  was  going  unfavorably  for 
her.  Yet  it  is  difficult  not  to  doubt,  not  almost  to  believe,  that 
the  letters,  produced  so  late  in  the  day  by  the  regent,  were,  as 
they  are  always  alleged,  by  Mary's  defenders  to  have  been,  for- 
geries. 

In  this  state  of  the  case,  the  trial  being  broken  off  by  Mary's 
own  refusal  to  proceed,  Elizabeth  dismissed  the  regent,  pro- 
nouncing no  judgment  on  the  cause,  refused  to  see  Mary,  or 


ELIZABETH    TUDOR    AND    MARY    STUART.  239 

receive  her  as  a  queen ;  and  subsequently  committed  her,  first, 
to  honorable  free  custody,  then  to  close  custody,  and,  lastly,  to 
strict  and  absolute  imprisonment. 

What  could  she  do  ?     What  should  she  have  done  ? 

She  could  have  received  her  in  her  court  as  a  sister,  an 
honored  and  invited  guest.  Against  this  was  the  plea  that  she 
could  not  extend  the  hand  of  friendship  to  one  suspected,  and 
almost  convicted,  of  petty  treason  in  the  assassination  of  a 
husband. 

She  could,  perhaps,  have  reinstated  her  vi  et  armis  in  her 
own  seat  of  power.  Against  this  was  the  plea  that  she  could 
not,  in  common  policy,  beat  down  a  protestant  power  for  the 
benefit  of  a  catholic  power,  a  friendly  Scottish  power  for  the 
benefit  of  a  hostile  French  power. 

She  could  have  dismissed  her,  as  she  claimed  to  be  dismissed, 
and  suffered  her  to  return  to  her  loved,  her  almost  native 
France.  Against  this  was  the  plea  that  she  could  not,  in  justice 
to  herself,  to  England,  permit  a  princess  almost  French  to  return 
to  hostile  France,  in  order  to  set  forth  anew — as  undoubtedly 
she  would  have  set  forth — her  title  to  the  English  crown ;  and 
to  enforce  it,  perhaps,  by  a  united  crusade  of  France  and  Spain, 
now  closely  allied,  against  the  liberties,  against  the  religion  of 
England. 

What  should  she  have  done  ? 

Alas  !  what  should  she  f  Had  they  been  both  private  per- 
sons, the  question  is  answered  without  a  thought :  she  should 
have  been  generous,  and  dismissed  her.  But  have  kings — they 
to  whom  the  charge  of  the  life,  the  happiness,  of  millions  is 
intrusted — have  kings  the  right  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of 
generosity,  when  that  generosity  must  needs  entail  destruction 
on  thousands  alive  and  happy?  I  answer  confidently,  they 
have  not  the  right.     But  Elizabeth  was  not  generous.     She 


240  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

imprisoned  her  fallen  rival,  cruelly,  for  long  and  weary  years ; 
unjustly,  in  accordance  with  right  and  law — justly,  in  accord- 
ance with  true  policy,  and  the  welfare  of  her  own  country  and 
the  world  at  large. 

The  question  of  the  execution  is  less  doubtful.  That  Mary  was 
privy  to  Norfolk's,  to  Babington's  plot  is,  I  fear,  proved  beyond 
a  doubt.  It  was  a  question  of  life  and  death  between  the  two, 
and  nothing  but  the  axe  or  the  knife  could  end  it.  The  axe 
ended  it ;  and  we  cannot,  I  think,  regret  the  catastrophe,  how- 
ever much  we  may  deplore  the  fate  of  the  lovely,  the  miserable, 
the  deeply-injured  Mary — however  much  we  may  condemn  the 
perfidiousness,  the  cold-blooded  duplicity,  the  bitter  malignity, 
the  hard-hearted  policy  of  Elizabeth. 

Yet  she,  too,  was  avenged.  For  who  can  doubt  that  the 
death  of  Elizabeth — agonized  by  secret  remorse,  refusing  sus- 
tenance or  aid  of  medicine,  groaning  her  soul  away  in  undisco- 
vered sorrow  for  ten  whole  nights  and  days  of  unknown  anguish, 
perishing  like  a  gaunt,  old,  famished  lioness,  in  despair  at  the 
deeds  herself  had  done — was  more  tremendous  fifty-fold,  and 
fifty-fold  less  pitied,  than  that  of  her  discrowned  rival  ? 


k  Wnlki  %ak%  mtfr  Jiia  Wlk 


1618. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH  AND  HIS  WIFE. 


It  is  commonly  said,  and  appears  generally  to  be  believed, 
by  superficial  students  of  history,  that  with  the  reigns  of  the 
Plantagenets,  with  the  Edwards  and  the  Henries  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  the  age  of  chivalry  was  ended,  the  spirit  t>f  romance 
became  extinct.  To  those,  however,  who  have  looked  carefully 
into  the  annals  of  the  long  and  glorious  reign  of  the  great 
Elizabeth,  it  becomes  evident  that,  so  far  from  having  passed 
away  with  the  tilt  and  tournament,  with  the  complete  suits  of 
knightly  armor,  and  the  perilous  feats  of  knight-errantry,  the 
fire  of  chivalrous  courtesy  and  chivalrous  adventure  never  blazed 
more  brightly,  than  at  the  very  moment  when  it  was  about  to 
expire  amid  the  pedantry  and  cowardice,  the  low  gluttony  and 
shameless  drunkenness,  which  disgraced  the  accession  of  the  first 
James  to  the  throne  of  England.  Nor  will  the  brightest  and 
most  glorious  names  of  fabulous  or  historic  chivalry,  the  Tan- 
creds  and  Godfreys  of  the  crusades,  the  Olivers  and  Rolands  of 
the  court  of  Charlemagne,  the  Cid  Campeador  of  old  Castile,  or 
the  preux  Bayard  of  France,  that  chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans  re- 
proche,  exceed  the  lustre  which  encircles,  to  this  day,  the  cha- 
racters of  Essex,  Howard,  Philip  Sidney,  Drake,  Hawkins,  Fro- 
bisher,  and  Walter  Raleigh. 

It  was  full  time  that,  at  this  period,  maritime  adventure  had 


244  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

superseded  the  career  of  the  barbed  war-horse,  and  the  brunt  of 
the  levelled  spear :  and  that  to  foray  on  the  Spanish  colonies 
beyond  the  line,  where,  it  was  said,  truce  or  peace  never  came ; 
to  tempt  the  perils  of  the  tropical  seas  in  search  of  the  Eldorado, 
or  the  Fountain  of  Health  and  Youth,  in  the  fabled  and  magical 
realms  of  central  Florida ;  and  to  colonize  the  forest  shores  of 
the  virgin  wilderness  of  the  west,  was  now  paramount  in  the 
ardent  minds  of  England's  martial  youth,  to  the  desire  of  obtain- 
ing distinction  in  the  bloody  battle-fields  of  the  Low  Countries, 
or  in  the  fierce  religious  wars  of  Hungary  and  Bohemia.  And 
of  these  hot  spirits,  the  most  ardent,  the  most  adventurous,  the 
foremost  in  everything  that  savored  of  romance  or  gallantry, 
was  the  world-renowned  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

Born  of  an  honorable  and  ancient  family  in  Devonshire,  he 
early  came  to  London  in  order  to  push  his  fortunes,  as  was  the 
custom  in  those  days  with  the  cadets  of  illustrious  families 
whose  worldly  wealth  was  unequal  to  their  birth  and  station,  by 
the  chances  of  court  favor,  or  the  readier  advancement  of  the 
sword.  At  this  period,  Elizabeth  was  desirous  of  lending  assist- 
ance to  the  French  Huguenots,  who  had  been  recently  defeated 
in  the  bloody  battle  of  Jarnac,  and  who  seemed  to  be  in  con- 
siderable peril  of  being  utterly  overpowered  by  their  cruel  and 
relentless  enemies  the  Guises ;  while  she  was  at  the  same  time 
wholly  disinclined  to  involve  England  in  actual  strife,  by  regu- 
lar and  declared  hostilities. 

She  gave  permission,  therefore,  to  Henry  Champernon  to  raise 
a  regiment  of  gentlemen  volunteers,  and  to  transport  them  into 
France.  In  the  number  of  these,  young  Walter  Raleigh  en- 
rolled, and  thenceforth  his  career  may  be  said  to  have  com- 
menced; for  from  that  time  scarce  a  desperate  or  glorious 
adventure  was  essayed,  either  by  sea  or  land,  in  which  he  was 
not  a  participator.     In  this,  his  first  great  school  of  military 


SIR    WALTER   RALEIGH    AND    HIS    WIFE.  245 

valor  and  distinction,  he  served  with  so  much  spirit,  and  such 
display  of  gallantry  and  aptitude  for  arms,  that  he  immediately 
attracted  attention,  and,  on  his  return  to  England  in  1570,  after 
the  pacification,  and  renewal  of  the  edicts  for  liberty  of  consci- 
ence, found  himself  at  once  a  marked  man. 

It  seems  that,  about  this  time,  in  connexion  with  Nicholas 
Blount  and  others,  who  afterwards  attained  to  both  rank  and 
eminence,  Kaleigh  attached  himself  to  the  Earl  of  Essex,  who 
at  that  time  disputed  with  Leicester  the  favors,  if  not  the  affec- 
tion, of  Elizabeth ;  and,  while  in  his  suite,  had  the  fortune  to 
attract  the  notice  of  that  princess  by  the  handsomeness  of  his 
figure,  and  the  gallantry  of  his  attire ;  she,  like  her  father  Henry, 
being  quick  to  observe  and  apt  to  admire  those  who  were  emi- 
nently gifted  with  the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  man. 

A  strangely  romantic  incident  was  connected  with  his  first 
rise  in  the  favor  of  the  virgin  queen,  which  is  so  vigorously 
and  brilliantly  described  by  another  and  even  more  renowned 
Sir  Walter  in  his  splendid  romance  of  Kenilworth,  that  it  shames 
us  to  attempt  it  with  our  far  inferior  pen ;  but  it  is  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  man  and  of  the  times  that  it  may  not  be  passed 
over  in  silence. 

Being  sent  once  on  a  mission — so  runs  the  tale — by  his  lord 
to  the  queen,  at  Greenwich,  he  arrived  just  as  she  was  issuing 
in  state  from  the  palace  to  take  her  barge,  which  lay  manned 
and  ready  at  the  stairs.  Eepulsed  by  the  gentlemen  pensioners, 
and  refused  access  to  her  majesty  until  after  her  return  from 
the  excursion,  the  young  esquire  s&od  aloof,  to  observe  the 
passing  of  the  pageant ;  and,  seeing  the  queen  pause  and  hesitate 
on  the  brink  of  a  pool  of  rain-water  which  intersected  her  path, 
no  convenience  being  at  hand  wherewith  to  bridge  it,  took  off 
his  crimson  cloak,  handsomely  laid  down  with  gold  lace,  his 
only  courtlike  garment,  fell  on  one  knee,  and  with  doffed  cap 


246  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  downcast  eyes  threw  i£  over  the  puddle,  so  that  the 
queen  passed  across  dry-shod,  and  swore  by  God's  life — her 
favorite  oath — that  there  was  chivalry  and  manhood  still  in 
England. 

Immediately  thereafter,  he  was  summoned  to  be  a  member 
of  the  royal  household,  and  was  retained  about  the  person  of  the 
queen,  who  condescended  to  acts  of  much  familiarity,  jesting, 
capping  verses,  and  playing  at  the  court  games  of  the  day  with 
him — not  a  little,  it  is  believed,  to  the  chagrin  of  the  haughty 
and  unworthy  favorite,  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester. 

It  does  not  appear,  however,  that,  although  she  might  coquet 
with  Ealeigh  to  gratify  her  own  love  of  admiration,  and  to 
enjoy  the  charms  of  his  rich  and  fiery  eloquence  and  versatile 
wit,  though  she  might  advance  him  in  his  career  of  arms,  and 
even  stimulate  his  vaulting  ambition  to  deeds  of  yet  wilder 
emprise,  she  ever  esteemed  Raleigh  as  he  deserved  to  be  es- 
teemed, or  penetrated  the  depths  of  his  imaginative  and  creative 
genius,  much  less  beloved  him  personally,  as  she  did  the  vain 
and  petty  ambitious  Leicester,  or  the  high-spirited,  the  valorous, 
the  hapless  Essex. 

Another  anecdote  is  related  of  this  period,  which  will  serve 
in  no  small  degree  to  illustrate  this  trait  of  Elizabeth's  strangely- 
mingled  nature.  Watching  with  the  ladies  of  her  court  in  the 
gardens  of  one  of  her  royal  residences,  as  was  her  jealous  and 
suspicious  usage,  the  movements  of  her  young  courtier,  when 
he  either  believed,  or  affected  to  believe  himself  unobserved,  she 
saw  him  write  a  line  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  a  garden  pavilion 
with  a  diamond  ring,  which,  on  inspecting  it  subsequently  to 
his  departure,  she  found  to  read  in  this  wise : — 

"  Fain  would  I  climb,  but  that  I  fear  to  fall—" 
the  sentence,  or  the  distich  rather,  being  thus  left  unfinished, 


SIR   WALTER    RALEIGH    AND    HIS    WIFE.  24*7 

when,  with  her  royal  hand,  she  added  the  second  line — no  slight 
encouragement  to  so  keen  and  fiery  a  temperament  as  that  of 
him  for  whom  she  wrote,  when  given  to  him  from  such  a  source — 

"  If  thy  heart  fail  thee,  do  not  climb  at  all." 

But  his  heart  never  failed  him — not  in  the  desperate  strife  with 
the  Invincible  Armada — not  when  he  discovered  and  won  for 
the  English  crown  the  wild  shores  of  the  tropical  Guiana — not 
when  he  sailed  the  first  far  up  the  mighty  Orinoco — not  when, 
in  after  days,  he  stormed  Cadiz — not  when  the  favor  of  Elizabeth 
was  forfeited — not  in  the  long  years  of  irksome,  solitary,  heart- 
breaking imprisonment,  endured  at  the  hands  of  that  base,  soul- 
less despot,  the  first  James  of  England — not  at  his  parting  from 
his  beloved  and  lovely  wife — not  on  the  scaffold,  where  he  died 
as  he  had  lived — a  dauntless,  chivalrous,  fyigh-minded  English 
gentleman. 

The  greatest  error  of  his  life  was  his  pertinacious  hostility  to 
Essex,  originating  in  the  jealousy  of  that  brave,  but  rash  and 
headstrong  leader,  who  disgraced  and  suspended  him  after  the 
taking  of  Fayal,  a  circumstance  which  he  never  forgave  or 
forgot — an  error  which  ultimately  cost  him  his  own  life,  since 
it  alienated  from  him  the  affections  of  the  English  people,  and 
rendered  them  pitiless  to  him  in  his  own  extremity. 

But  his  greatest  crime,  in  the  eyes  of  Elizabeth,  the  crime 
which  lost  him  her  good  graces  for  ever  and  neutralized  all  his 
services  on  the  flood  and  in  the  field,  rendering  ineffective  even 
the  strange  letter  which  he  addressed  to  his  friend,  Sir  Robert 
Cecil,  and  which  was  doubtless  shown  to  the  queen,  although  it 
failed  to  move  her  implacable  and  iron  heart,  was  his  marriage, 
early  in  life,  to  the  beautiful  and  charming  Elizabeth  Throgmor- 
ton.  The  letter  to  which  I  have  alluded  is  so  curious  that  I 
cannot  refrain  from  quoting  it  entire,  as  a  most  singular  illus- 


248  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

tration  of  the  habits  of  that  age  of  chivalry,  and  of  the  character 
of  that  strange  compound,  Elizabeth,  who,  to  the  "heart  of  a 
man,  and  that  man  a  king  of  England,"  to  quote  her  own  elo- 
quent and  noble  diction,  added  the  vanity  and  conceit  of  the 
weakest  and  most  frivolous  of  womankind ;  and  who,  at  the  age 
of  sixty  years,  chose  to  be  addressed  as  a  Diana  and  a  Venus, 
a  nymph,  a  goddess,  and  an  angel. 

"  My  heart,"  he  wrote,  "  was  never  till  this  day,  that  I  hear 
the  queen  goes  away  so  far  off,  whom  I  have  followed  so  many 
years,  with  so  great  love  and  desire,  in  so  many  journeys,  and 
am  now  left  behind  here,  in  a  dark  prison  all  alone.  While 
she  was  yet  near  at  hand,  that  I  might  hear  of  her  once  in  two 
or  three  days,  my  sorrows  were  the  less ;  but  even  now  my 
heart  is  cast  into  the  depth  of  all  misery.  I,  that  was  wont  to 
behold  her  riding  lite  Alexander,  hunting  like  Diana,  walking 
like  Venus,  the  gentle  wind  blowing  her  hair  about  her  pure 
cheeks  like  a  nymph,  sometimes  sitting  in  the  shade  like  a 
goddess,  sometimes  singing  like  an  angel,  sometimes  play- 
ing like  Orpheus.  Behold  the  sorrow  of  this  world  !  Once  a 
miss  has  bereaved  me  of  all.  Oh !  glory,  that  only  shineth 
in  misfortune,  what  is  become  of  thy  assurance  ?  All  wounds 
have  scars  but  that  of  fantasy :  all  affections  their  relentings 
but  that  of  womankind.  Who  is  the  judge  of  friendship 
but  adversity?  or  when  is  grace  witnessed  but  in  offences? 
There  was  no  divinity  but  by  reason  of  compassion ;  for  re- 
venges are  brutish  and  mortal.  All  those  times  past,  the  loves, 
the  sighs,  the  sorrows,  the  desires,  cannot  they  weigh  down  one 
frail  misfortune  ?  Cannot  one  drop  of  gall  be  his  in  so  great 
heaps  of  sweetness  ?  I  may  then  conclude,  *  spes  et  fortuna 
valete  ;'  she  is  gone  in  whom  I  trusted,  and  of  me  hath  not  one 
thought  of  mercy,  nor  any  respect  of  that  which  was.  Do  with 
me  now,  therefore,  what  you   list.     I  am  more  weary  of  life 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH    AND    HIS    WIFE.  249 

than  they  are  desirous  that  I  should  perish ;  which,  if., it  had 
been  for  her,  as  it  is  by  her,  I  had  been  too  happily  borii." 

It  is  singular  enough  that  such  a  letter  should  have  been 
written,  under  any  circumstances,  by  a  middle-aged  courtier  to 
an  aged  queen  ;  but  it  becomes  far  more  remarkable  and  extra- 
ordinary when  we  know  that  the  life  of  Raleigh  was  not  so 
much  as  threatened  at  the  time  when  he  wrote ;  and,  so  far  had 
either  of  the  parties  ever  been  from  entertaining  any  such  affec- 
tion the  one  for  the  other  as  could  alone,  according  to  modern 
ideas,  justify  such  fervor  of  language,  that  Elizabeth  was  at  that 
time  pining  with  frustrated  affection  and  vain  remorse  for  the 
death  of  her  beloved  Essex ;  which,  in  the  end,  broke  a  heart 
which  had  defied  all  machinations  of  murderous  conspiracies,  all 
menaces,  all  overtures  of  the  most  powerful  and  martial  princes 
to  sway  it  from  its  stately  and  impassive  magnanimity ;  while 
Raleigh  was  possessed  by  the  most  ardent  and  enduring  affection 
to  the  almost  perfect  woman  whom  he  held  it  his  proudest  trophy 
to  have  wedded,  and  who  justified  his  entire  devotion  by  her  love 
unmoved  through  good  or  ill  report,  and  proved  to  the  utmost 
in  the  dungeon  and  on  the  scaffold — the  love  of  a  pure,  high- 
minded,  trusting  woman,  confident,  and  fearless,  and  faithful  to 
the  end. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Raleigh  suspected  the  true  cause  of 
Elizabeth's  alienation  from  so  good  and  great  a  servant :  per- 
haps no  one  man  of  the  many  whom  for  the  like  cause  she  ne- 
glected, disgraced,  persecuted,  knew  that  the  cause  existed  in  the 
fact  of  their  having  taken  to  themselves  partners  of  life  and 
happiness — a  solace  which  she  sacrificed  to  the  sterile  honors  of 
an  undivided  crown — of  their  enjoying  the  bliss  and  perfect 
contentment  of  a  happy  wedded  life,  while  she,  who  would  fain 
have  enjoyed  the  like,  could  she  have  done  so  without  the  loss 
of  some  portion  of  her  independent  and  undivided  authority, 

12 


250  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

was  compelled,  by  her  own  jealousy  of  power  and  obstinacy  of 
will,  to  pine  in  lonely  and  unloved  virginity. 

Yet  such  was  doubtless  the  cause  of  his  decline  in  the  royal 
favor,  which  he  never,  in  after  days,  regained ;  for,  after  Essex 
was  dead  by  her  award  and  deed,  Elizabeth,  in  her  furious  and 
lion-like  remorse,  visited  his  death  upon  the  heads  of  all  those 
who  had  been  his  enemies  in  life,  or  counselled  her  against  him, 
even  when  he  was  in  arms  against  her  crown :  nor  forgave  them 
any  more  than  she  forgave  herself,  who  died  literally  broken- 
hearted, the  most  lamentable  and  disastrous  of  women,  if  the 
proudest  and  most  fortunate  of  queens,  in  the  heyday  of  her  for- 
tunes, when  she  had  raised  her  England  to  that  proud  and  pre- 
eminent station  above  rather  than  among  the  states  of  Europe, 
from  which  she  never  declined,  save  for  a  brief  space  under  her 
successors,  those  weakest  and  wickedest  of  English  kings,  the 
ominous  and  ill-starred  Stuarts,  and  which  she  still  maintains 
in  her  hale  and  superb  old  age,  savoring,  after  nearly  nine  cen- 
turies of  increasing  might  and  scarcely  interrupted  rule,  in  no 
respect  of  decrepitude  or  decay. 

Her  greatest  crime  was  the  death  of  Mary  Stuart;  her  great- 
est misfortune,  the  death  of  Essex ;  her  greatest  shame,  the  dis- 
grace of  Walter  Raleigh.  But  with  all  her  crimes,  all  her  mis- 
fortunes, all  her  shame,  she  was  a  great  woman  and  a  glorious 
queen,  and  in  both  qualities  peculiarly  and  distinctively  English. 
The  stay  and  bulwark  of  her  country's  freedom  and  religion, 
she  lived  and  died  possessed  of  that  rarest  and  most  divine  gift 
to  princes,  her  people's  unmixed  Jove  and  veneration. 

She  died  in  an  ill  day,  and  was  succeeded  by  one  in  all 
respects  her  opposite :  a  coward,  a  pedant,  a  knave,  a  tyrant,  a 
mean,  base,  beastly  sensualist — a  bad  man,  devoid  even  of  a  bad 
man's  one  redeeming  virtue,  physical  courage — a  bad,  weak  man, 
with  the  heart  of  a  worse  and  weaker  woman — a  man  with  all 


SIR    WALTER   RALEIGH    AND    HIS    WIFE.  251 

the  vices  of  the  brute  creation,  without  one  of  their  virtues. 
His  instincts  and  impulses  were  all  vile  and  low,  crafty  and 
cruel ;  his  principles — if  his  rules  of  action,  which  were  all 
founded  on  cheatery  and  subtle  craft,  can  be  called  principles — 
were  yet  baser  than  his  instinctive  impulses. 

He  is  the  only  man  I  know,  recorded  in  history,  who  is  solely 
odious,  contemptible,  and  bestial,  without  one  redeeming  trait, 
one  feature  of  mind  or  body  that  can  preserve  him  from  utter 
and  absolute  detestation  and  damnation  of  all  honorable  and 
manly  minds. 

He  is  the  only  king  of  whom,  from  his  cradle  to  his  grave, 
no  one  good  deed,  no  generous,  or  bold,  or  holy,  or  ambitious, 
much  less  patriotic  or  aspiring,  thought  or  action  is  related. 

His  soul  was  akin  to  the  mud,  of  which  his  body  was  framed 
— to  the  slime  of  loathsome  and  beastly  debauchery,  in  which\ 
he  wallowed  habitually  with  his  court  and  the  ladies  of  his  court, 
and  his  queen  at  their  head,  and  could  no  more  have  soared 
heavenward  than  the  garbage-battened  vulture  could  have  soared 
to  the  noble  falcon's  pitch  and  pride  of  place. 
.  This  beast, *  for  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  write  him  man  or 
king,  with  the  usual  hatred  and  jealousy  of  low  foul  minds 
towards  everything  noble  and  superior,  early  conceived  a  hatred 
for  the  gallant  and  great  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  whose  enterprise 
and  adventure  he  had  just  intellect  enough  to  comprehend  so 
far  as  to  fear  them,  but  of  whose  patriotism,  chivalry,  innate 
nobility  of  soul,  romantic  daring,  splendid  imagination,  and  vast 
literary  conceptions — being  utterly  unconscious  himself  of  such- 
emotions — he  was  no  more  capable  of  forming  a  conception, 

*  I  would  here  caution  my  readers  from  placing  the  slightest  confi- 
dence in  anything  stated  in  Hume's  History  {fable  ?)  of  the  Stuarts, 
and  especially  of  this,  the  worst  of  a  bad  breed. 


252  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

than  is  the  burrowing  mole  of  appreciating  the  flight  of  the 
soaring  eagle. 

So  early  as  the  second  year  of  his  reign,  he  contrived  to  have 
this  great  discoverer  and  gallant  soldier — to  whom  Virginia  is 
indebted  for  the  honor  of  being  the  first  English  colony,  James- 
town having  been  settled  in  1(306,  whereas  the  Puritans  landed 
on  the  rock  of  Plymouth  no  earlier  than  1620,  and  to  whom 
North  Carolina  has  done  honor  creditable  to  herself  in  naming 
her  capital  after  him,  the  first  English  colonist — arraigned  on  a 
false  charge  of  conspiracy  in  the  case  of  Arabella  Stuart,  a  young 
lady  as  virtuous  and  more  unfortunate  than  sweet  Jane  Grey, 
whose  treatment  by  James  would  alone  have  been  enough  to 
stamp  him  with  eternal  infamy,  and  for  whose-history  we  refer 
our  readers  to  the  fine  novel  by  Mr.  James  on  this  subject. 

At  this  time,  Raleigh  was  unpopular  in  England,  on  account 
of  his  supposed  complicity  in  the  death  of  Essex ;  and,  on  the 
strength  of  this  unpopularity,  he  was  arraigned,  on  the  single 
written  testimony  of  one  Cobham,  a  pardoned  convict  of  the 
same  conspiracy,  which  testimony  he  afterwards  retracted,  and 
then  again  retracted  the  retractation,  and — without  one  concur- 
ring circumstance,  without  being  confronted  with  the  prisoner, 
after  shameless  persecution  from  Sir  Edward  Coke,  the  great 
lawyer,  then  attorney-general — was  found  guilty  by  the  jury,  and 
sentenced,  contrary  to  all  equity  and  justice,  to  the  capital 
penalties  of  high  treason.    . 

From  this  year,  1604,  until  1618,  a  period  of  nearly  fourteen 
years,  not  daring  to  put  him  at  that  time  to  death,  he  caused 
him  to  be  confined  strictly  in  the  Tower,  a  cruel  punishment  for 
so  quick  and  active  a  spirit,  which  he  probably  expected  would 
speedily  release  him  by  a  natural  death  from  one  whom  he 
regarded  as  a  dangerous  and  resolute  foe,  whom  he  dared  nei~ 


SIR    WALTER   RALEIGH    AND    HIS    WIFE.  253 

ther  openly  to  dispatch  nor  honorably  tp  release  from  unmerited 
and  arbitrary  confinement. 

But  his  cruel  anticipations  were  signally  frustrated  by  the 
noble  constancy,  and  calm,  self-sustained  intrepidity  of  the  noble 
prisoner,  who,  to  borrow  the  words  of  the  detractor,  Hume, 
"  being  educated  amid  naval  and  military  enterprises,  had  sur- 
passed, in  the  pursuits  of  literature,  even  those  of  the  most 
recluse  and  sedentary  lives." 

Supported  and  consoled  by  his  exemplary  and  excellent  wife, 
he  was  enabled  to  entertain  the  irksome  days  and  nights  of  his 
solitary  imprisonment  by  the  composition  of  a  work,  which,  if 
deficient  in  the  points  which  are  now,  in  the  advanced  state  of 
human  sciences,  considered  essential  to  a  great  literary  creation, 
is,  as  regarded  under  the  circumstances  of  its  conception  and 
execution,  one  of  the  greatest  exploits  of  human  ingenuity  and 
human  industry — "  The  History  of  the  World,  by  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh." 

It  was  during  his  imprisonment  also  that  he  projected  the 
colonization  of  Jamestown,  which  was  carried  out  in  1606,  at 
his  instigation,  by  the  Bristol  Company,  of  which  he  was  a 
member.  This  colony,  though  it  was  twica  deserted,  was  in  the 
end  successful,  and  in  it  was  born  the  first  child,  Virginia  Dare 
by  name,  of  that  Anglo-Saxon  race  which  has  since  conquered 
a  continent,  and  surpassed,  in  the  nonage  of  its  republican  sway, 
the  maturity  of  mighty  nations. 

In  1618,  induced  by  the  promises  of  Raleigh  to  put  the  Eng- 
lish crown  in  possession  of  a  gold  mine  which  he  asserted,  and 
probably  believed  he  had  discovered  in  Guiana,  James,  whose 
avidity  always  conquered  his  resentments,  and  who,  like  Faustus, 
would  have  sold  his  soul — had  he  had  one  to  sell — for  gold, 
released  him,  and  granting  him,  as  he  asserted,  an  uncondi- 
tional pardon — but,  as  James  and  his  counsellors  maintain,  one 


254  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

conditional  on  fresh  discoveries — sent  him  out  at  the  head  of 
twelve  armed  vessels. 

What  follows  is  obscure ;  but  it  appears  that  Raleigh,  failing 
to  discover  the  mines,  attacked  and  plundered  the  little  town  of 
St.  Thomas,  which  the  Spaniards  had  built  on  the  territories  of 
Guiana,  which  Raleigh  had  acquired  three-and-twenty  years 
before  for  the  English  crown,  and  which  James,  with  his  wonted 
pusillanimity,  had  allowed  the  Spaniards  to  occupy,  without  so 
much  as  a  remonstrance. 

This  conduct  of  Raleigh  must  be  admitted  unjustifiable,  as 
Spain  and  England  were  then  in  a  state  of  profound  peace ; 
and  the  plea  that  truce  or  peace  with  Spain  never  crossed  the 
line,  though  popular  in  England  in  those  days  of  Spanish 
aggression  and  Romish  intolerance,  cannot  for  a  moment  stand 
the  test  either  of  reason  or  of  law. 

Falling  into  suspicion  with  his  comrades,  Sir  Walter  was 
brought  home  in  irons,  and  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  piti- 
less and  rancorous  king,  who  resolved  to  destroy  him— yet, 
dreading  to  awaken  popular  indignation  by  delivering  him  up 
to  Spain,  caused  to  revive  the  ancient  sentence,  which  had  never 
been  set  aside  by  a  formal  pardon,  and  cruelly  and  unjustly 
executed  him  on  that  spot,  so  consecrated  by  the  blood  of  noble 
patriots  and  holy  martyrs,  the  dark  and  gory  scaffold  of  Tower 
Hill. 

And  here,  in  conclusion,  I  can  do  no  better  than  to  quote 
from  an  anonymous  writer  in  a  recent  English  magazine,  the 
following  brief  tribute  to  his  high  qualities,  and  sad  doom, 
accompanied  by  his  last  exquisite  letter  to  his  wife. 

"His  mind  was  indeed  of  no  common  order.  With  him, the 
wonders  of  earth  and  the  dispensations  of  heaven  were  alike 
welcome ;  his  discoveries  at  sea,  his  adventures  abroad,  his 
attacks  on  the  colonies  of  Spain,  were  all  arenas  of  glory  to  him 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH    AND    HIS    WIFE.  255 

— but  he  was  infinitely  happier  by  his  own  fireside,  in  recalling 
the  spirits  of  the  great  in  the  history  of  his  country — nay,  was 
even  more  contented  in  the  gloom  of  his  ill-deserved  prison, 
with  the  volume  of  genius  or  the  book  of  life  before  him,  than 
in  the  most  animating  successes  of  the  battle-field. 

"  The  event  which  clouded  his  prosperity  and  destroyed  his 
influence  with  the  queen — his  marriage  with  Elizabeth  Throg- 
rnorton — was  the  one  upon  which  he  most  prided  himself;  and 
justly,  too — for,  if  ever  woman  was  created  the  companion,  the 
solace  of  man — if  ever  wife  was  deemed  the  dearest  thing  of 
earth  to  which  earth  clings,  that  woman  was  his  wife.  Not 
merely  in  the  smiles  of  the  court  did  her  smiles  make  a  wTorld 
of  sunshine  to  her  Raleigh  ;  not  merely  when  the  destruction  of 
the  Armada  made  her  husband's  name  glorious  ;  not  merely 
when  his  successes  and  his  discoveries  on  the  ocean  made  his 
presence  longed  for  at  the  palace,  did  she  interweave  her  best 
affections  with  the  lord  of  her  heart.  It  was  in  the  hour  of 
adversity  she  became  his  dearest  companion,  his  'ministering 
angel ;'  and  when  the  gloomy  walls  of  the  accursed  Tower  held 
all  her  empire  of  love,  how  proudly  she  owned  her  sovereignty  ! 
Not  even  before  the  feet  of  her  haughty  mistress,  in  her  pray- 
erful entreaties  lor  her  dear  Walter's  life,  did  she  so  eminently 
shine  forth  in  all  the  majesty  of  feminine  excellence  as  when  she 
guided  his  counsels  in  the  dungeon,  and  nerved  his  mind  to  the 
trials  of  the  scaffold,  where,  in  his  manly  fortitude,  his  noble 
self-reliance,  the  people,  who  mingled  their  tears  with  his  tri- 
umph, saw  how  much  the  patriot  was  indebted  to  the  woman. 

"  Were  there  no  other  language  but  that  of  simple,  honest 
affection,  what  a  world  of  poetry  would  remain  to  us  in  the 
universe  of  love  !  You  may  be  excited  to  sorrow  for  his  fate  by 
recalling  the  varied  incidents  of  his  attractive  life ;  you  may 
mourn  over  the  ruins  of  his  chapel  at  his  native  village  :  you 


256  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

may  weep  over  the  fatal  result  of  liis  ill-starred  patriotism — 
you  may  glow  over  his  successes  in  the  field  or  on  the  wave; 
your  lip  may  curl  with  scorn  at  the  miserable  jealousy  of  Eliza- 
beth— your  eye  may  kindle  with  wrath  at  the  pitiful  tyranny 
of  James — but  how  will  your  sympathies  be  so  awakened  as  by 
reading  his  last,  simple,  touching  letter  to  his  wife  ? 

"  'You  receive,  ray  dear  wife,  my  last  words,  in  these  my  last 
lines.  My  love  I  send  you  that  you  may  keep  it  when  I  am 
dead — and  my  counsel,  that  you  may  remember  it  when  I  am 
no  more.  I  would  not  with  my  will  present  you  with  sorrows, 
dear  Bess — let  them  go  to  the  grave  with  me  and  be  buried  in 
the  dust — and,  seeing  that  it  is  not  the  will  of  God  that  I 
should  see  you  any  more,  bear  my  destruction  patiently,  and 
with  a -heart  like  yourself. 

"'First — I  send  you  all  the  thanks  which  my  heart  can  con- 
ceive, or  my  words  express,  for  your  many  travails  and  cares  for 
me,  which,  though  they  have  not  taken  effect  as  you  wished, 
yet  my  debt  to  you  is  not  the  less  ;  but  pay  it  I  never  shall  in 
this  world. 

"  'Secondly — I  beseech  you,  for  the  love  you  bear  me  living, 
that  you  do  not  hide  yourself  many  days,  but  by  your  travails 
seek  to  help  my  miserable  fortunes  and  the  right  of  your  poor 
child — your  mourning  cannot  avail  me  that  am  dust — for  I  am 
no  more  yours,  nor  you  mine — death  hath  cut  us  asunder,  and 
God  hath  divided  me  from  the  world,  and  you  from  me. 

"'I  cannot  write  much.  God  knows  how  hardly  I  steal  this 
time  when  all  sleep.  Beg  my  dead  body,  which,  when  living 
was  denied  you,  and  lay  it  by  our  father  and  mother — lean  say 
no  more — time  and  death  call  me  away;  the  everlasting  God — 
the  powerful,  infinite,  and  inscrutable  God,  who  is  goodness 
itself,  the  true  light  and  life,  keep  you  and  yours,  and  have 


SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH   AND    HIS   WIFE.  257 

mercy  upon  me,  and  forgive  my  persecutors  and  false  accusers, 
and  send  us  to  meet  in  his  glorious  kingdom. 

"  My  dear  wife — farewell !  Bless  my  boy — pray  for  me,  and 
let  the  true  God  hold  you  both  in  his  arms. 

"  '  Yours,  that  was  ;  but  now,  not  mine  own, 

"  'Walter  Ealeigh.' 

"  Thus  a  few  fond  words  convey  more  poetry  to  the  heart 
than  a  whole  world  of  verse. 

"  "We  know  not  any  man's  history  more  romantic  in  its  com- 
mencement, or  more  touching  in  its  close,  than  that  of  Raleigh — 
from  the  first  dawn  of  his  fortunes,  when  he  threw  his  cloak 
before  the  foot  of  royalty,  throughout  his  brilliant  rise  and  long 
imprisonment  to  the  hour  when  royalty  rejoiced  in  his  merci- 
less martyrdom. 

"  Whether  the  recital  of  his  eloquent  speeches,  the  perusal 
of  his  vigorous  and  original  poetry,  or  the  narration  of  his 
quaint  yet  profound  '  History  of  the  World,'  engage  our  atten- 
tion, all  will  equally  impress  us  with  admiration  of  his  talent, 
with  wonder  at  his  achievements,  with  sympathy  in  his  misfor- 
tunes, and  with  pity  at  his  fall." 

When  he  was  brought  upon  the  scaffold,  he  felt  the  edge  of 
the  axe  with  which  he  was  to  be  beheaded,  and  observed,  u  'Tis 
a  sharp  remedy,  but  a  sure  one  for  all  ills,"  harangued  the  peo- 
ple calmly,  eloquently,  and  conclusively,  in  defence  of  his  cha- 
racter, laid  his  head  on  the  block  with  indifference,  and  died  as 
he  had  lived — undaunted,  one  of  the  greatest  benefactors  of  both 
England  and  America,  judicially  murdered  by  the  pitiful  spite 
of  the  basest  and  worst  of  England's  monarchs.  James  could 
slay  his  body,  but  his  fame  shall  live  for  ever. 


L2* 


dMtot  Crotmnell  atitt  Cjiarte  I 


1048. 


CROMWELL  AND  CHARLES  I. 


In  the  first  years  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  stood  a 
small  and  dilapidated  grange,  or  old-fashioned  farm-house,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  little  borough  town  of  St.  Joes,  in  Hun- 
tingdonshire, the  seat  of  the  last  scion  of  a  noble  family,  now 
lapsed  from  its  high  estate  and  fallen  into  unmerited  decay — 
the  family  of  Cromwell — which  had  been  distinguished  so  long 
before  as  the  reign  of  Henry  VIIL,  and  which  even  claimed 
to  share  the  royal  blood  of  the  unhappy  race  of  Stuarts,  whom 
they  were  destined,  in  the  end,  to  supplant  by  energy  of  will 
and  arbitration  of  the  sword. 

The  present  tenant  of  that  desolate  and  dismal  grange  was 
a  young  man,  the  heir  and  sole  remaining  stay  of  the  old  house, 
a  strong,  thick-set,  ungraceful  person,  with  large,  coarse  fea- 
tures, redeemed,  however,  in  the  eye  at  least  of  the  physiogno- 
mist, by  the  fine  massive  forehead,  and  the  singular  expression 
of  thought,  combined  with  immutable  resolve  and  indomitable 
will,  which  pervaded  all  his  features. 

It  was  a  dark  and  stormy  night  of  November,  and  the  wind 
was  wailing  with  a  sad  and  hollow  sound  among  the  stunted 
willows  which  surrounded  the  old  farm-house,  nurtured  by  the 
stagnant  waters  of  the  broad  cuts  and  dikes  made  for  the  drain- 
age of  the  sour  and  sterile  soil  from  which  they  sprang.    But 


262  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

the  night  was  not  more  gloomy  than  the  countenance,  perhaps 
than  the  thoughts,  of  the  ruined  agriculturist,  who  sat  alone 
by  the  cheerless  hearth,  poring  over  the  maps  and  plans  of  ex- 
tensive fen  improvements,  in  which  he  had  sunk  the  remnant 
of  his  impoverished  fortunes,  by  the  dim  light  of  a  single  wan- 
ing lamp. 

There  were  no  ornaments  of  any  kind  to  be  seen  in  the  dis- 
mal apartment,  unless  a  few  weapons  and  pieces  of  old  armor 
hanging  on  the  walls,  upon  which  the  fitful  light  of  the  wood 
fire  played  with  varying  flashes,  might  be  called  ornaments. 
The  floor  was  of  brick,  sanded ;  the  walls  exhibited  their  bare 
and  paintless  plaster  ;  the  furniture  was  of  the  humblest — two 
or  three  straight-backed  oaken  chairs,  the  ponderous  table  at 
which  he  sat,  strewn  with  papers  of  calculation,  maps,  and  dia- 
grams, and  one  large  book  clasped  with  brass  and  bound  in 
greasy  calf-skin,  which,  by  its  shape,  was  evidently  the  volume 
of  Holy  Writ.  Another  trevet  table,  in  the  chimney  corner, 
supported  a  coarse,  brown  loaf,  a  crust  of  old  cheese,  and  a 
black  jack  of  small  ale,  the  supper  of  the  agricultural  specula- 
tor, of  the  visionary  and  enthusiastical  religionist. 

At  length  he  arose  from  the  table,  before  which  he  had  been 
so  long  seated,  and  traversed  the  room  with  heavy  and  resound- 
ing steps,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back  and  his  head  bowed 
forward  on  his  chest,  muttering  half-heard  words  between  his 
close-set  teeth,  and  occasionally  heaving  deep  sighs.  After  a 
while  he  paused,  as  he  reached  the  trevet  table,  took  a  deep 
draught  of  ale  from  the  black  jack,  and  then,  opening  the  pon- 
derous Bible,  read  a  chapter  of  Isaiah,  one  of  the  most  fiercely 
denunciatory  against  Pharaoh  and  the  princes  of  Egypt,  after 
which  he  cast  himself  on  his  knees  and  unburdened  himself  of 
a  long,  rambling,  vehement,  extemporaneous  prayer,  which,  ac- 


OLIVER    CROMWELL   AND    CHARLES    I.  263 

cording  to  our  notions,  partook  far  more  of  the  nature  of  curs- 
ing than  of  praying,  of  blasphemy  than  of  piety. 

This  duty  performed,  he  took  up  the  lamp  from  the  table? 
and  leaving  the  room,  ascended  a  great,  creaking,  half-dismantled 
staircase,  which  led  to  a  sort  of  corridor  with  many  doors  of 
sleeping  apartments  opening  upon  it.  Into  one  of  these  he  en- 
tered, locking  the  door  behind  him,  and  securing  it  with  several 
heavy  bolts,  and,  setting  down  his  light  upon  a  rude  oaken 
bureau,  placed  his  broadsword  beneath  his  pillow,  and  disattired 
himself  with  great  haste  and  little  ceremony. 

Within  five  minutes  the  light  was  extinguished  and  the  man 
ensconced  in  the  old-fashioned  bed-clothes  of  a  huge  four-post 
tester-bed,  which  had  once,  evidently,  like  its  occupant,  known 
better  days,  surrounded  with  heavy  curtains  of  faded  and  moth- 
fretted  damask  drawn  closely  around  it  on  all  sides.  For  a 
time,  all  was  silent,  except  the  heavy  breathing — degenerating 
at  times  into  what  seemed  almost  sighs — of  the  sleeper,  and  the 
occasional  howl  of  a  mastiff  without,  baying  the  moon,  when, 
at  fitful  intervals,  she  waded  out  from  among  the  giant  clouds, 
and  cast  her  wavering  and  pallid  gleams,  fleeting  like  ghosts 
along  the  bare  walls  of  that  great  unfurnished  chamber. 

What  followed  would  be  too  strange,  too  improbable  for  grave 
recital,  were  it  not  that  we  find  it  recorded,  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  cavil,  in  contemporaneous  history,  long  before  the  oc- 
currence of  the  events  which  it  would  seem  to  foreshadow  ;  and 
it  was  undoubtedly  accredited  as  a  fact  by  the  early  associates 
and  comrades  of  the  great  and  extraordinary  man,  of  whom  it 
is  related,  and  whose  actual  life  was  as  real,  as  practical,  and  as 
stern,  as  his  inner  existence  was  visionary,  morbidly  fanciful,  and 
fanatically  enthu-iastical. 

His  curtains,  he  avowed  ever,  were  drawn  asunder  with  a  loud 
jingling  of  the  rings  by  which  they  were  suspended,  and  he 


264  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

might  see,  in  the  opening  of  their  folds,  a  misty  shape,  gigan- 
tical,  but  undefined,  while  a  voice  thundered  in  his  ears,  might- 
ier than  any  human  utterance,  "  Arise,  Oliver,  arise !  thou  that 
shalt  be,  not  king,  but  the  first  man  in  England !" 

And  this  was  thrice  repeated  ;  and  thenceforth  a  new  spirit 
was  awakened  in  the  soul  of  the  strong,  iron-minded,  adamant- 
willed  visionary,  whose  very  superstitions  were  to  him,  not  as 
to  other  men,  weaknesses,  but  strength — an  impenetrable  armor 
for  his  own  defence ;  an  indomitable  weapon  against  his  ene- 
mies ;  and  the  name  of  that  new  spirit,  though  it  may  well  be 
he  who  felt  it  knew  it  not,  was  ambition. 

The  name  of  that  man  was  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  of  a  surety 
in  after  times  he  was,  "  although  not  king,  the  first  man  in  Eng- 
land," the  first  not  in  his  own  days  but  perhaps  in  all  days — 
not  only  then,  but  now,  and  perhaps  for  ever. 

Despite  all  his  errors,  all  his  crimes — for  the  ambitious  rarely 
fail  of  crime — this  is  his  great  redemption,  that  he  was  purely, 
patriotically  English;  that,  with  him,  his  country,  and  his 
country's  greatness,  were  ever  the  leading  objects,  paramount 
to  self ;  and  that  when,  by  his  own  energy  and  will,  he  had 
made  himself  "  the  first  man  in  England,"  he  rested  not  from 
his  fierce  struggle  with  the  world  till  he  had  rendered  "  England 
the  first  realm  in  Europe,"  and  the  name  of  Englishman  as 
much  respected  throughout  Christendom  as  was  that  in  the 
ancient  time  of  "  civis  Romanus." 

Nearly  at  the  same  date  with  the  occurrence  above  related, 
the  throne  of  England  was  ascended,  among  the  general  re- 
joicings and  almost  universal  satisfaction  of  his  people,  by  a 
young,  graceful,  and  amiable  prince,  son  of  an  old,  debauched, 
degraded,  drunken  despot,  half  pedant  and  half  fool,  addicted 
to  vices  which  are  so  hideous  as  to  lack  a  name ;  as  a  king, 
and  as  a  man,  alike  without  one  virtue,  one  redeeming  phase 


OLIVER   CROMWELL    AND    CHARLES   I.  265 

of  character ;  an  animal,  in  one  word,  unworthy  to  be  styled 
a  man,  who  lived  detested,  and  died  amid  the  secret  joy  and 
scarcely  simulated  mourning  of  the  subjects  by  whom  he  had 
been  scarcely  tolerated  while  alive  and  powerful. 

Popular  himself,  and  wedded  happily  while  young  to  a  young 
and  beautiful  princess — the  daughter  of  one  of  the  greatest 
and  the  most  popular  of  European  princes,  Henry  IV.  of 
France ;  singularly  handsome ;  learned  enough  for  a  gentle- 
man and  king — skilful  in  manly  exercises — grave  and  decorous, 
perhaps  somewhat  austere,  but  ever  with  a  gracious  and  serene 
austerity  in  his  deportment ;  really  and  genuinely  pious,  and 
devoted  heart  and  soul  to  .the  doctrines  of  the  church  of  Eng- 
land ;  singularly  pure  in  his  morals,  and  virtuous,  without  a 
stain  in  his  domestic  relations — Charles  I.,  of  England,  might 
have  been,  had  he  but  seen  the  right  path  and  taken  it,  the 
most  popular,  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  kings  of  England  ; 
he  was  the  weakest,  though  by  no  means  the  worst,  and  the 
most  unfortunate. 

His  first  and  greatest  misfortune  was  the  period  of  his  birth, 
an  absolute,  or  nearly  absolute  monarch,  when  the  limits  of 
royal  prerogative  and  parliamentary  privilege,  of  royal  power 
and  popular  rights,  were  altogether  undefined,  among  a  people 
on  whom  were  gradually  dawning,  through  the  medium  of  the 
^Reformation,  and  the  perverted  views  of  the  ultra-reforming 
and  fanatical  Puritans,  the  principles  of  constitutional  liberty, 
and  the  fixed  determination  to  uphold  it,  as  the  inalienable 
birthright  of  every  Englishman. 

His  second  was  his  false  and  detestable  education  under  the 
doctrines  of  that  subtle  Scottish  sophist,  his  abominable  father, 
the  first  James,  who  instilled  into  him,  from  his  earliest  youth, 
his  own  favorite  doctrine,  that  the  best,  the  wisest,  and  most 
royal  way  of  governing  a  people  is  by  cheating  them ;  a  way 


266  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

of  governance  which  he  exultingly  termed  kingcraft,  not  in 
contempt  as  men  now  speak  of  priestcraft,  but  as  a  term  of  high 
and  honorable  import.  Added  to  this,  he  taught  him,  ever  and 
anon,  that  a  people  has  no  rights,  nor  an  individual  member  of 
the  people ;  and  that  a  king  has  no  duties  except  to  govern, 
well  if  it  like  him,  if  not,  ill — only  to  govern  de  jure  divino. 
The  last,  and  most  fatal  of  all  his  lessons,  which  he  inculcated 
so  steadily  upon  him  that  it  seems  to  have  taken  ineradicable 
root  in  his  mind,  was  that  no  faith  was  required  from  a  king  to 
his  subjects. 

His  last  was  his  own  infirmity  of  character.  Principles,  to 
use  the  term  correctly,  Charles  appears  to  have  had  none — 
unless  we  may  call  his  attachment  to  the  established  church, 
and  his  unquestionable  religious  character,  by  this  title.  Settled 
opinions  and  rooted  habits  he  had  many,  ,and  these,  with  many 
men,  are  apt  to  pass  for  principles ;  and  of  these,  strengthened 
by  his  natural  obstinacy,  and  confirmed  yet  further  by  oppo- 
sition, we  are  inclined  to  regard  his  adherence  to  the  church, 
through  good  report  and  ill,  through  life  and  unto  death,  as  one, 
and  undoubtedly  the  best  and  truest. 

Sincere  in  his  religion,  in  all  things  else  he  was  habitually, 
by  education,  and  we  think  by  hereditary  temperament,  the 
most  insincere  of  men.  To  friends  and  to  enemies  he  was  alike 
untrue  and  faithless.  The  former  could  never  rely  on  his  pro- 
tection, the  latter  could  never  put  trust  in  his  most  solemn 
asseverations. 

Obstinate  and  unyielding  to  the  last  against  the  advice  of 
the  best  and  wisest  of  his  friends,  where  concession  would  have 
been  wisdom ;  wherever  resistance  to  the  end  became  the  right 
and  only  course  of  conduct,  he  was  invariably  found  vacillating, 
weak,  infirm  of  purpose. 

Had  he  been  obstinate  in  the  right,  when  the  head  of  the 


OLIVER    CROMWELL   AND    CHARLES    I.  267 

noble  Stafford  was  demanded  at  his  hands,  the  only  pilot  who 
could  have  steered  the  ship  of  royalty  safe  through  the  tempest 
of  Puritan  democracy,  he  never  had  lost  his  crown,  or  bowed 
his  own  head  to  that  block  on  which  he  sacrificed  the  bravest 
and  most  able  of  his  counsellors. 

Had  he  been  timely  wise,  and  listened  to  conditions,  when 
the  last  fight  had  been  fought  at  Long  Marston,  "  never,"  to  use 
the  words  of  Sir  John  Berkeley,  perhaps  the  wisest  of  his  late 
advisers — u  never  would  crown  so  nearly  lost  have  been  regained 
on  terms  so  easy."  But  it  was  not  so  written ;  and  the  eye 
even  of  the  most  blinded  follower  of  loyalty  must  perceive  that 
it  was  good,  both  for  the  peoples  and  the  princes,  yea,  and  for 
the  world,  the  human  race  at  large,  that  King  Charles  I.  should 
perish  on  the  block ;  that  his  power,  if  not  his  crown,  should 
fall  on  the  head  of  that  most  royal-minded  of  plebeians,  who 
swayed  England's  sceptre  as  none  of  her  kings,  save  perhaps 
Elizabeth,  ever  swayed  it;  and  who  did  more  than  ever  man 
did  for  the  development  of  that  great  race,  then  starting  on  its 
vast,  sublime  career  of  war  and  commerce,  liberty  and  tolera- 
tian,  science  in  peace  and  victory  in  arms,  which  we  misname 
the  Anglo-Saxon  ;  and  which,  so  surely  as  the  great  sun  stands 
still,  and  the  earth  travels  round  it,  shall  girdle  the  globe  from 
east  again  to  east,  and  cover  it  from  pole  to  pole,  until  no 
prayer  shall  mount  to  God  but  in  the  accents  of  the  English 
tongue. 

If  there  be  one  man  of  men  whom  England  and  America 
should  unite  to  venerate,  it  is  that  hard,  morose,  rude  Oliver, 
who  secured  for  the  Ocean  Isle  that  position  among  European 
nations  which  she  still  maintains,  that  pre-eminence  upon  the 
seas  which  secured  to  virgin  America  the  glorious  privilege  of 
being  Anglo-Saxon  and  progressive,  rather  than  Dutch  or  Spa- 
nish, and  degenerating  still  into  the  last  abyss  of  inanition. 


268  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

The  limits  of  our  narrative  preclude,  of  course,  the  pos- 
sibility of  our  sketching,  with  the  briefest  pen,  the  consecutive 
events  in  council  and  in  field  which  signalized  the  greatest  and 
most  durable  of  revolutions;  the  watch-cry  and  trophy  of  which 
were  Privilege  of  Parliaments  and  the  Bill  of  Rights ;  and  the 
effects  of  which  still  endure  in  the  civil  freedom  and  religious 
liberty,  in  the  maintenance  of  governmental  powers,  and  the 
independence  of  individual  rights  peculiar  to  the  genuine  free 
politics  of  England  and  the  United  States,  as  contrasted  to  the 
spurious  and  bastard  combination  of  despotic  and  anarchical 
principles  which  signalize  the  sham  republics  of  all  other  races. 

In  the  first  instance,  perhaps,  the  Parliament,  and  the  Com- 
mons more  especially,  manifested  a  want  of  confidence,  and,  still 
more,  a  want  of  liberality,  in  granting  necessary  supplies  to  the 
king,  which  circumstances,  up  to  that  time,  would  scarcely 
appear  to  have  warranted.  But,  ere  long,  the  king  manifested 
his  true  intentions,  and  came  out  under  his  genuine  colors.  To 
levy  taxes  by  his  own  arbitrary  imposition,  to  govern  England 
of  his  own  will,  wholly  dispensing  with  the  use  of  Parliaments 
altogether,  was  the  scheme  of  Charles  I.,  ably  carried  into  effect 
for  a  time  by  Thomas  Wentworth,  the  able,  haughty,  and  un- 
happy Earl  of  Strafford,  and,  as  united  to  the  suppression  of  all 
other  churches  save  that  of  England  only,  comprehensively 
embodied  by  him  in  the  singular  term,  "  thorough." 

How  Hampden,  Pym,  St.  John,  the  elder  Vane,  Eliot,  and 
other  noble  spirits  strove,  suffered,  and,  in  the  end,  triumphed, 
for  the  liberties  of  England,  history  has  told  trumpet-tongued 
with  all  her  spirit-kindling  echoes  ;  but  few  know  the  fact  that, 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  even  so  early  as  the  petition  for  the 
bill  of  rights,  and  the  subsequent  remonstrance,  Oliver  Crom- 
well was  already  a  man  of  mark ;  in  council,  it  is  probable,  not 
oratory;  for  he  never  became  a  fluent  or  powerful  speaker, 


OLIVER    CROMWELL    AND    CHARLES    I.  269 

even  when  his  accents  were  heard  from  the  protectoral  chair ; 
and  he  seems,  like  Talleyrand  in  after  days,  to  have  regarded 
language  as  a  special  gift  for  the  concealment  of  thought. 

On  the  eventful  evening  of  the  carrying  of  the  Remonstrance, 
on  which  the  debate  was  waged  with  such  fury  that  many  of 
the  elder  and  sager  members  presaged  an  armed  conflict  and 
bloodshed — for  gentlemen  in  those  days  habitually,  as  of  their 
right,  wore  swords — when  the  members  were  leaving  the  house, 
.  a  gentleman  asked  John  Hampden,  pointing  to  Oliver,  who,  by 
the  way,  was  Hampden's  cousin,  "Who  is  that  slovenly,  ill- 
dressed  fellow?"  To  which  the  great,  pure  patriot  replied, 
"  That  sloven,  should  this  controversy  between  the  king  and 
commons  be  carried  to  the  appeal  of  arms,  which  may  God 
forbid,  I  say  to  you,  that  sloven  will  "be  the  greatest  man  in 
England." 

And  John  Hampden  was  no  indifferent  judge  in  such  matters  ; 
nor,  though  he  did  not  live  to  see  it,  was  he  mistaken  in  the 
issue.  But  he  lived  not  to  see  it;  and,  had  he  lived,  it  is  pro- 
bable that  he  would  have  resisted,  unto  the  death,  the  usurping 
ambition  of  the  Great  Independent,  even  as  he  resisted  the 
usurped  prerogative  of  the  lawful  king. 

But  John  Hampden  fell,  shot  to  the  death  through  the  left 
shoulder  with  three  bullets,  at  the  head  of  his  own  regiment  of 
Buckinghamshire  volunteers,  on  the  sad  field  of  Chalgrove,  the 
purest  and  most  moderate  of  patriots. 

And,  shortly  afterwards,  at  Newbury,  fell  Lucius  Cary,  Vis- 
count Falkland,  of  whom  Clarendon  has  recorded  that,  although 
conscience  and  patriotism  compelled  him  to  take  up  arms 
and  to  do  battle  for  the  king,  he  was  ever  from  that  moment 
wont,  even  in  the  company  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  to  fall 
into  deep  fits  of  melancholy  musing,  and  to  ingeminate,  with 
shrill  and  touching  accents,  the  word,  peace,  peace.     He  fell,  the 


270  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

purest  and  most  moderate  of  royalists ;  and,  thenceforth,  purity- 
seemed  dead,  and  moderation  likewise,  on  both  sides,  and  the 
mortal  sword,  as  ever,  wTas  the  arbiter. 

It  was  to  the  great  insight  of  Oliver  Cromwell  into  the  minds 
of  men — for  he  early  discerned  that  some  new  spirit  must  be 
aroused  in  the  minds  of  men  to  counterbalance  the  antique 
chivalry  and  loyalty  among  the  "  decayed  tapsters  and  pimple- 
nosed  serving-men,"  of  whom,  by  his  own  allegation,  the  bulk 
of  the  parliamentarian  armies  were  composed — that  the  ultimate 
victory  of  the  parliament  must  be  ascribed. 

To  meet  this  spirit  of  chivalry,  he  awakened  the  spirit  of 
militant  religion  ;  and,  as  ever  must  be  the  case  when  the  reli- 
gion of  the  masses  becomes  militant,  as  in  the  crusades,  as  in 
the  Huguenot  wars  of  France,  and  as  in  his  own  case  especially, 
with  it,  his  own  creation,  he  overrode  the  oldest  monarchy,  the 
most  sublime  and  stately  hierarchy,  the  noblest  and  most  puis- 
sant aristocracy  of  Europe ;  he  overrode,  secondly,  the  Parlia- 
ment of  England  ;  he  overrode,  in  the  last  place,  though  in  our 
opinion  wisely,  justly,  and  for  the  preservation  of  his  country 
from  the  worse  curse  of  fanatical  intolerance  and  social  anarchy, 
the  liberties  of  England  herself,  and  made  himself,  all  but  in 
name,  the  mightiest  and  wisest  of  her  kings. 

Charles  died  on  the  scaffold,  by  the  connivance  rather  than 
by  the  act  of  Cromwell.  Prevented  it,  assuredly  he  might  have 
done ;  but,  preventing,  must  himself  have  perished ;  for  Charles 
could  not  be  trusted.  Oliver  would  have  spared  him  once,  nay, 
but  reinstated  him;  but  the  fatal  discovery  of  a  genuine  letter, 
wherein  the  fated  king  assured  his  queen  that  "  for  those  knaves," 
meaning  Essex  and  Cromwell,  "  to  whom  he  had  promised  a 
silken  garter,  he  had  in  lieu  of  it  a  hempen  halter^"  sealed  his 
fate  thenceforth  for  ever. 

The  scabbard  was  cast  away  between  them,  and  in  the  strife 


OLIVER   CROMWELL   AND    CHARLES    I.  2Yl 

of  swords,  as  ever  must  be  the  case,  the  weaker  went  to  the 
wall.  Charles  the  First  died  to  be  pitied  as  a  private  man,  to 
be  deplored  by  the  church  of  which  he  was  a  faithful  son,  but 
certainly  not  regretted  as  a  king,  for  he  was  clearly  in  intent 
a  traitor  and  tyrant ;  yet  can  it  not  be  said  of  him,  as  it  was  of 
Julius  Caesar,  '-''Jure  ccesus  habeatur ! '" — Let  him  be  held  justly 
slain ! — for,  in  the  English  constitution,  from  time  immemorial, 
there  is  no  rule  or  precedent  by  which  a  king  can  be  brought 
to  trial  by  his  subjects. 

Still,  he  had  not  much  reason  for  complaint;  during  his 
whole  life  he  had  sacrificed  to  expediency  only,  not  to  justice,  or 
to  the  rights  of  man,  or  to  his  oaths  before  God ;  and  himself 
to  expediency  he  fell  a  royal  victim.  He  fell  by  the  axe  on  the 
scaffold  at  Whitehall,  and  Heaven  had  no  thunders  by  which 
to  bruit  aloud^  its  indignation  or  its  horror  at  his  fall. 

By  his  death,  he  aroused  again  the  spirit  of  aggrieved  loyalty 
to  arms,  and  fatal  Dunbar,  bloody  Worcester,  the  great  usurper's 
"  crowning  mercy,"  proved  how  gallant  and  true  Was  the  heart 
of  the  English  gentry,  proved  how  ineffectual  and  vain  is  gal- 
lantry or  truth,  is  heart  and  hand,  against  the  iron  bands  of 
discipline,  against  the  leadership  of  a  leader  competent  to  govern 
the  energies  and  point  the  enthusiasm  of  his  men. 

When  Cromwell  flung  his  arm  aloft,  amid  the  sun -burst 
through  the  mist  which  revealed  his  enemies  rushing  down  at 
the  bidding  of  their  frenzied  preachers  to  "  do  battle  at  Arma- 
geddon," and  shouted,  in  his  massive  tones,  "  Let  God  arise,  and 
let  his  enemies  be  scattered  !"  he  showed  himself  a  captain 
among  captains.  The  far-famed  "sun  of  Austerlitz"  is  trite  and 
tame  beside  that  glorious  battle-word.  When  he  drove,  igno- 
miniously,  the."  Rump"  of  the  Long  Parliament  from  the  station 
which  it  had  so  long  misused,  from  domination  over  a  nation 
which  it  had  so  long  misgoverned ;  when  he  bade  his  obedient 


272  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Ironsides  "  carry  away  that  bauble,"  lie  proved  himself  a  braver 
and  more  consistent  patriot  than  when  he  thundered  upon  the 
flank  of  the  half-victorious  cavaliers  at  Marston,  and  conquered 
the  reeling  fight ;  than  when  he  fought  bareheaded  in  the  van 
of  the  last  deadliest  melee  of  Naseby ;  than  when  he  dared  to 
sign  the  death-warrant  of  his  hapless  king. 

When  he  once  sat  upon  the  throne — for  which  he  had  played, 
as  some  men  will  have  it,  so  foully,  though  we  cannot  regard 
it  as  so  altogether — he  used  that  usurped  power  solely  for  Eng- 
land's good  and  England's  glory ;  he  wore,  if  not  a  crown,  "  a 
more  than  dictatorial  wreath,"  conquered,  indeed,  by  might,  but 
affixed  by  mercy.  ' 

The  worst  blot  on  his  name  is  the  deeds  which  have  rendered 
that  name,  to  this  day,  a  curse  in  Ireland ;  but  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  he  was  dealing  with  men  whom  he  regarded  as 
murderers  and  heathens,  and  deeming  himself  probably  the  God- 
ordained  avenger  of  protestant  and  pious  blood. 

His  greatest  glory  is  Spain  humbled,  Holland  overcome, 
Scotland  and  Ireland  pacified,  the  colonies  planted,  the  naviga- 
tion act  passed,  the  maritime  glory  of  England,  the  Anglo- 
Saxonism  of  North  America  secured.  These  are  his  high  glories 
— glories  enough  for  the  greatest.  They  should  secure  him  im- 
mortality among  men — may  they  secure  him  pardon  before  God ! 

When  he  died,  the  greatest  tempest  on  record — until  that 
kindled  tempest  which  scourged  the  earth  when  Napoleon,  the 
second  Cromwell,  was  departing  from  his  scene  of  mingled 
crime  and  glory — devastated  Europe  from  the  Baltic  to  Cape 
Bon,  from  the  Bosphorus  to  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  uptearing  trees, 
upheaving  hills,  unroofing  houses,  killing  both  man  and  beast 
in  the  open  field,  with  one  continuous  glare  of  lightning,  one 
roll  of  continuous  thunder.  . 
i    And,  as  the  death  hours  of  these,  the  two  greatest  of  usurpers, 


OLIVER   CROMWELL   AND    CHARLES    I  273 

were  thus  similar,  so  were  their  last  words  strikingly  alike. 
Cromwell,  having  lain  senseless  for  above  an  hour,  started  to 
consciousness  at  a  tremendous  thunderclap,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Ordnance !"  Napoleon,  transported  by  the  din  of  elemental 
strife  into  the  strife  of  men,  muttered  the  words,  "  tete  cfarmee" 
and  passed  into  that  world  where  the  drum  hath  no  sound  and 
the  sword  is  edgeless. 

Both  were  great  in  their  day ;  both  were  guilty ;  but  both 
were  instruments  of  the  God  who  made  them,  not  for  evil,  but 
unto  good.  It  is  for  Him  alone  to  judge  them,  as  it  is  His  alone 
to  show  mercy.     Requiescant  I 


13 


CJmrlntte  to  la  CmuBalb, 


COUNTESS    OF    DERBY. 


1651. 


CHARLOTTE  DE  LA  TREMOUILLE, 

COUNTESS  OF  DEBBY. 


The  Countess  of  Derby  may  well  be  pronounced  one  of  the 
noblest,  greatest,  and  most  heroical  women  that  England  or  the 
world  ever  has  produced.  I  write  England  advisedly  ;  for,  al- 
though she  was  a  Frenchwoman  by  birth,  and  that  of  the  very 
highest  rank  short  of  royalty,  being  a  daughter  of  the  princely 
house  of  La  Tremouille — it  was  still  in  England  that  all  her 
great  exploits  were  performed — all  her  extraordinary  qualities 
displayed ;  and  as  she  was  married  in  very  early  youth  to  the 
gallant  and  noble  Derby,  nearly,  indeed,  at  the  same  period 
when  his  royal  master,  Charles  L,  espoused  the  beautiful  daugh- 
ter of  the  last  hero-king  of  France,  Henry,  the  Bearnois  of 
Navarre,  it  is  not  unnatural  to  conclude  that  it  was  in  her 
adopted,  rather  than  her  native  country,  that  she  learned  those 
lessons  of  strong  persistency,  cool  endurance,  and  patient  forti- 
tude, which  would  appear  in  all  ages  to  have  been  characteris- 
tic rather  of  the  English  than  of  the  French  temper,  which  is 
generally  held  to  be  conspicuous  for  impulsive  gallantry  and 
offensive  valor,  rather  than  for  perseverance  under  the  pressure 
of  evil  or  iron  sufferance  of  inevitable  calamity. 

Still,  heroism  is  of  no  age  or  country — although  there  may 


278  PERSONS    AND    TICTURES. 

be  peculiar  shades  or  hues  which  appear  to  belong  to  the  attri- 
butes, and  to  constitute,  as  it  were,  almost  general  traits  of  na- 
tional character.  Even  in  this  view,  however,  there  are  discre- 
pancies to  be  noted  by  the  wise  observer,  which  quickly  show 
the  injudiciousness  of  those  who,  from  general  traits,  would 
seek  to  establish  absolute  principles,  or  to  constitute  individual 
actions  the  basis  of  invariable  laws. 

Thus,  in  spite  of  the  generally  prevailing  notion  that  the 
French,  however  admirable  at  attack,  are  greatly  inferior  in  the 
defence  of  fortified  places,  the  most  wonderful  instance  of  en- 
durance, under  horrors  of  famine,  pestilence,  and  exhaustion 
almost  unparalleled,  recorded  in  modern  history,  is  the  protract- 
ed resistance  of  Massena  within  the  walls  of  Genoa,  against 
the  combined  armies  of  Austria  and  fleets  of  England,  by  which, 
in  point  of  fact,  he  neutralized  all  the  successes  of  the  victors, 
and  converted  defeat  into  triumph,  by  holding  out  until  the 
French  columns  had  already  crossed  the  Alps,  and  thus  making 
possible  the  almost  miraculous  campaign  of  Marengo. 

Again,  it  was  Charlotte  de  laTremouille,  who,  with  unparalleled 
feminine  heroism,  defended  Latham  House  long  after  hope  had 
been  extinct  in  the  hearts  of  the  bravest  of  its  masculine  de- 
fenders, while  her  Lord  was  fighting  afar  off  for  his  church 
and  his  king — who,  a  second  time,  after  the  noble  head  of  Derby 
had  fallen  on  the  gory  scaffold,  last  token  of  his  adherence  to 
that  holy  cause  which  he  could  uphold  no  longer,  defended  the 
Peel  Castle  in  her  hereditary  realm  of  Man,  fighting  for  the 
rights  of  her  son  and  the  hereditary  dignities  of  his  race,  long 
after  the  weak  unworthy  monarch,  Charles  II.,  had  departed  a 
fugitive  from  his  kingdom — and  who  so  earned  the  noble  praise 
of  being  the  last  person  in  all  the  territories,  provinces,  depen- 
dencies of  Great  Britain,  who  laid  down  arms  which  she  had 
taken  up  for  the  rights,  and  which  she  resigned  only — as  the 


CHARLOTTE    DE    LA    TREMOUILLE.  279 

sovereign  of  a  mere  mimic  realm  almost  within  gunshot  of  the 
shores  of  England — after  Virginia,  the  Bermudas,  Antigua,  and 
Barbadoes  had  submitted  to  the  parliament ;  after  the  sister 
islands  of  the  Channel,  Scilly  and  Guernsey,  had  surrendered ;  and 
the  narrow  seas  were  swept  far  and  nigh,  cutting  ofT  all  supplies, 
and  prohibiting  all  egress  or  ingress  to  her  island  fortalice,  by 
the  unrivalled  fleets  of  Blake. 

Equally  heroical  with  that  heroine  of  all  time,  the  Maid  of 
Arc,  her  heroism  was  yet  of  a  character  entirely  different  and 
distinct.  The  character  of  the  latter  was  essentially  French — 
French  of  all  ages,  though  modified  assuredly  by  the  peculiar 
influences  of  her  own  era ;  deeply  imbued  with  romance,  full 
of  impulsive  fire,  burning  with  generous  ardor,  deeply  imbued 
with  the  sensibility  to  the  call  of  glory,  kindled  at  a  word  to 
.  the  wildest  enthusiasm,  not  unresponsive  to  the  breath  of  su- 
perstitious fatalism ;  yet  despondent  when  held  inactive,  and  re- 
covering her  high  courage  and  unflinching  heroism  only  when 
actually  called  upon  to  do  or  to  suffer. 

Widely  different  was  the  noble  Charlotte  de  la  Tremouille  ; 
for  of  her  it  might  have  been  said,  as  was  said  of  the  greatest 
man  of  the  present  day,  that  duty  was  everything  and  glory 
nothing,  except  endorsed  as  it  arose  incidentally  from  the  con- 
sequence of  duty  done.  Not  in  the  slightest  degree  touched 
by  romance  as  to  her  own  secret  nature,  although  the  history 
of  her  career  is  in  itself  the  wildest  of  romances ;  scarcely,  if 
at  all,  influenced  by  impulses ;  a  person  of  slender  imagination 
and  few  sensibilities ;  superior  to  all  superstitions  ;  superior  also 
to  all  reverses  of  fortune,  she  was  greater  by  far  in  suffering 
than  in  living :  and  it  was  rather  by  supporting  with  unmoved 
constancy  what  her  enemies  did  unto  her,  than  by  doing  unto 
them  what  they  might  not  have  half  so  hardly  supported,  that 
she  earned  her  undying  fame  and  spotless  reputation. 


280  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

It  is  said,  that  in  her  younger  days  she  was  remarkable  for 
delicate  and  extraordinary  beauty ;  if  it  were  so,  anxiety  and 
a  life  harder,  and  exposed  to  vicissitudes  more  man-like,  than 
are  wont  to  break  the  calm  tenor  of  female  ways,  early  de- 
stroyed all  its  vestiges  ;  for  in  the  magnificent  painting  of  Van- 
dyke, which  still  exists,  as  do  those  of  most  others  of  the  cele- 
brated ladies  of  her  day,  she  is  represented  as  a  stout  and  some- 
what coarse-featured  matron,  of  middle  age,  richly  attired,  but 
possessing  none  of  that  refined  and  gentle  haughtiness — if  I 
may  so  express  myself — which  we  somehow  or  other  expect  to 
see  in  the  carriage  and  lineaments  of  those  who,  themselves 
great,  have  mingled  much  in  the  society  of  the  great,  and  yet 
more,  who  have  themselves  been  the  doers  of  great  actions. 

There  is  none  of  this  haughtiness,  or  dignity,  then,  call  it 
which  you  will,  in  the  air  or  features  of  Charlotte  de  la  Tre- 
mouille ;  nor  is  there  any  marked  impress  on  her  brow  and  lip 
either  of  deep  thought  and  high  intellect,  or  of  brilliancy,  dar- 
ing, and  courage  almost  superhuman.  On  the  contrary,  she 
has  the  air  of  a  genuine  country  matron  of  high  class,  in  her 
own  age — something,  one  would  think,  of  a  Lady  Bountiful ; 
apt  at  distilling  simples  and  dispensing  medicines  to  the  ailing, 
good  things  to  the  hungry  of  her  tenantry  and  neighbors  ; 
yet  this  was  she,  who  for  two  successive  kings  of  England  did 
more,  held  more,  suffered  more,  and  lost  more  than  any  other 
woman  who'  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life ;  who,  after  the  death 
of  one  monarch  on  the  scaffold,  and  the  despairing  exile  of  an- 
other, for  whom  her  noble  lord  had  died  devoted,  endured  the 
utmost  of  persecution  from  the  cruel  and  victorious  parliament — 
who,  after  the  restoration  of  that  monarch's  worthless  son,  en- 
dured yet  more  from  his  base  ingratitude  than  she  had  done 
from  the  rancor  of  his  enemies,  herself  coming  nigh  to  perish- 
ing on  the  same  scaffold  which  had  drunk  her  husband's  gore, 


CHARLOTTE    DE    LA    TREMOUILLE.  281 

charged  by  the  perjured  monster  Oates  with  participation  in 
that  popish  plot,  which  never  had  an  existence  without  the 
brain  of  that  most  mean  and  odious  of  all  murderers. 

Early  in  the  war  of  the  commonwealth  and  the  king,  that 
war  through  the  furnace  and  fierce  ordeal  of  which,  through  so 
much  misery  to  the  kings,  the  nobles,  and  the  people  of  Eng- 
land, was  wrought  out  at  last  the  wonderful  edifice  of  her  pre- 
sent constitution,  with  all  its  inestimable  blessings — that  con- 
stitution, which  alone  possessing  the  power  of  self-modification, 
can  be  progressive  without  being  iconoclastic  or  destructive,  can 
undergo  change  without  fear  of  revolution,  and  therefore  bids 
fair  to  be  coeval  with  the  chalk  cliffs  which  wall  its  empire  : 
early  in  that  war,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  at  its  very  commence- 
ment, the  Earl  of  Derby  had  taken  arms  for  his  sovereign,  be- 
lieving it  wiser  to  trust  to  the  king,  whose  prerogatives  were 
already  strictly  limited,  whose  leaning  towards  absolutism  might 
be  supposed  to  be,  in  a  great  measure,  checked,  and  to  whose 
encroachments  all  constitutional  means  of  resistance  existed,  in 
full  force,  or  rather  reinforced  and  greatly  strengthened  by  the 
passage  of  the  bill  of  rights,  and  the  adoption  of  the  general 
remonstrance— than  to  submit  to  the  self-constituted  authority 
of  the  parliament,  now  evidently  bent  on  wresting  everything 
beyond  the  bare  name  of  regal  power  from  the  almost  help- 
less monarch,  whose  proceedings  had  no  limit  save  their  own 
consciences  and  their  own  will ;  and  whose  violence  and  out- 
rage, the  kingly  power  once  gone,  and  the  ministers  of  the  law 
merely  their  own  creatures,  there  was  no  means  in  the  kingdom 
constituted  for  disputing  legally  or  resisting  forcibly. 

Steadfastly,  gallantly,  he  had  fought  to  the  last — nor  less 
nobly  had  his  countess  contended,  as  all  men  know,  for  the  de- 
fence of  Latham  house  is  history — and  there  are  few  to  whom 
its  details  are  not  facts,  as  it  were,  of  every-day  allusion.    How 

13* 


282  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

she  held  out  alone,  with  her  lord  afar,  not  fighting  unwomanly 
with  the  sword,  not  donning  the  attire  or  buckling  on  the  armor 
*of  a  man — for  heroine  as  she  was,  she  saw  the  indelicacy  and 
inutility  alike  of  such  procedure — but  aiding,  assisting,  com- 
forting, inspiriting  all,  by  the  unmoved  composure  of  her 
noble  face,  by  the  unvarying  and  placid  smile  with  which 
she  received  all  evil  tidings ;  with  which  she  endured  all 
personal  inconveniences  and  sufferings — including  towards  the 
end  the  want  of  common  necessaries,  of  bread  and  water 
to  support  human  life.  Limiting  her  own  table  to  the  quantity 
and  quality  allotted  to  the  meanest  sentinel ;  braving  the  hot- 
test fire  of  the  assailants  to  carry  refreshments  to  the  weary,  as- 
sistance to  the  wounded,  of  the  combatants ;  nay  !  as  defender 
after  defender  fell  slain  outright  or  sorely  wounded  at  his  ap- 
pointed station,  carrying  arms  and  ammunition,  clad  in  her  full 
magnificence  of  court  attire,  to  any  member,  as  they  failed  him, 
of  that  weak,  yet  invincible  garrison  ;  and  in  that  last  assault, 
when  the  ladders  were  reared  against  every  bartizan  and  but- 
tress, when  the  volleying  death-shots  raked  every  embrasure 
and  window,  when  the  clash  and  clang  of  broadswords  on  cui- 
rass and  helmet  were  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  culverins, 
the  sharp  rattle  of  the  musketry,  and  savage  shouts  and  execra- 
tions of  her  combatants,  standing  with  her  maidens  side  by  side 
with  their  defenders,  and  loading  musquetoon  and  harquebuss 
as  fast  as  they  might  fire  them,  until  all  was  ended. 

Vainly,  however,  fought  the  earl  in  the  field,  vainly  the 
countess  in  her  guarded  fortalice — for  the  good  cause  might 
not.  prevail,  until  England  should  have  supped  deeper  yet  of 
horrors,  and  her  king  should  have  bowed  down  that  "  grey  dis- 
crowned head,"  erewhile  so  fair  and  noble,  to  the  base  felon's 
block.  If  Charles  lost  kingdom,  crown,  and  life,  Derby  and 
his  young  wife  lost  all  they  had  in  England,  princely  estates, 


CHARLOTTE    DE    LA   TREMOUILLE.  283 

high  rank,  wealth  almost  royal,  title  most  exalted — all  was 
gone  save  the  feudal  royalty  of  the  little  Isle  of  Man  ;  save  the 
lives  which  both  had  risked  so  freely,  one  scarce  had.  thought 
they  valued  them. 

And  even  these  they  held,  not  as  their  own  possessions,  but 
as  things  to  be  devoted  to  the  cause,  to  be  cast  self-sacrificed  to 
the  winds  of  heaven,  to  soon  as  the  service  of  the  king  should 
desire  it. 

So  for  the  time  all  was  over.  Hopton,  the  king's  best  leader 
in  the  west,  was  defeated,  and  his  army  utterly  dispersed  at 
Torrington  by  Fairfax.  Montrose  was  hors  du  combat,  deprived 
of  all  his  men  by  the  decisive  route  of  Philiphaugh  ;  and  Astley 
— gallant  Astley — who,  before  the  first  encounter  of  the  cavaliers 
and  roundheads  at  Edgehill,  knelt  at  the  head  of  his  lines,  and 
prayed  this  short  prayer  memorable  through  all  time  :  "  0  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  how  busy  I  must  be  this  day.  If  I  forget  Thee, 
do  not  Thou  forget  me !"  and  then  springing  to  his  charger 
cried,  "  March  on,  boys !"  and  led  a  charge  so  fiery  and  so  well 
sustained,  that  it  won  the  day.  That  same  Lord  Astley,  de- 
feated at  Stowe  by  Morgan,  with  superior  forces,  and  himself 
taken  prisoner,  said  to  the  parliamentarians : — "You  have  done 
your  work,  and  may  now  go  to  play,  unless  you  choose  to  fall 
out  among  yourselves  I" 

And  in  truth  their  work  was  done — and  their  cruel  play  was 
about  to  commence,  which  had  for  stakes  the  fortunes  of  a 
country,  and  the  life  of  a  king. 

In  the  short  insurrection  which  broke  out,  when  the  tidings 
were  proclaimed,  how  that  the  parliament  had  determined  to 
try  the  king  by  a  high  court  of  justice,  and  to  bring  him,  whom 
they  dared  not  murder,  to  the  block,  Derby  bore  no  part.  Ill- 
planned,  uncombined,  irregular,  it  had  neither  concert  nor  the 
chances  of  success — it  could  be  fatal  only  to  its  projectors,  and 


284  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

fatal  to  them  it  was — for  after  it  was  shed  on  the  scaffold  the 
first  blood  that  flowed  during  the  war,  save  by  sword,  flagrante 
hello,  when  sword  was  met  by  sword,  the  blood  of  Lisle  and 
Lucas  and  Lord  Capel  shamefully  slaughtered — Cromwell's  first 
deed  of  cruelty  and  shame — in  spite  of  capitulation  after  Col- 
chester. 

So  far  from  that  insurrection  deferring,  or  tending  to  prevent, 
it  accelerated  only  the  murder  of  the  king,  by  harassing  the  ap- 
prehensions, without  alarming  the  fears  of  the  parliamentarians. 
But,  as  I  have  said,  in  it  Derby  bore  no  part ;  it  was  too  sud- 
denly concerted  to  permit  him  to  be  present,  even  if  his  mili- 
tary sagacity  and  clear  political  foresight  would  have  permitted 
him  to  join  so  rash  a  rising. 

But  he  was  in  no  condition  to  have  done  so  in  any  event,  for 
so  soon  as  he  saw  that  for  the  present  all  was  lost,  he  made  good 
his  retreat,  rather  than  his  escape,  with  his  countess,  her  son, 
and  the  trustiest  of  his  adherents,  to  the  strong  walls  and 
castles  of  his  island  kingdom,  which  he  put  in  order  at  once  to 
make  the  most  vigorous  defence  of  his  own  rights,  and  to  wage 
war  for  his  own  crown  of  Man,  and  for  that  of  his  brother  king 
of  England.* 

Ireton,  meanwhile,  who  commanded  in  the  north  for  the 
parliament,  and  had  a  strong  force  afoot  in  Lancashire,  sent 
him  a  trumpet,  with  a  summons  to  surrender  on  good  con- 
ditions, to  whom  the  earl  returned  this  answer  of  high  and 
stern  defiance. 

-  *  It  musty  be  borne  in  mind  that  this  was  not  a  mere  ceremonial  or 
nominal  title ;  but  that  this  Countess  of  Derby  was  received  by  Charles 
II.  as  "  notre  tres  che're  et  tres  puissant  soeur,  Heine  de  Man  et  Contesse 
de  Derby" — and  that  it  is  only  within  the  memory  of  persons  now  alive, 
that  the  feudal  title  of  kings  of  Man  was  extinguished  by  its  cession  to 
the  crown  of  England,  by  the  then  Earl  of  Derby. 


CHARLOTTE    DE    LA    TREMOUILLE.  285 

"  I  received  your  letter  with  indignation,  and  with  scorn 
return  you  this  answer,  that  I  cannot  but  wonder  whence  you 
gather  any  hopes  that  I  should  prove,  like  you,  treacherous  to 
my  sovereign ;  since  you  cannot  be  ignorant  of  my  former 
actions  in  his  late  majesty's  service,  from  which  principles  o. 
loyalty  I  am  no  whit  departed.  :  I  scorn  your  proffers ;  I  dis- 
dain your  favor ;  I  abhor  your  treason  ;  and  am  so  far  from 
delivering  up  this  island  to  your  advantage,  that  I  shall  keep 
it  to  the  utmost  of  my  power  for  your  destruction.  Take  this 
for  your  final  answer,  and  forbear  any  further  solicitations :  for 
if  you  trouble  me  with  any  more  messages  of  this  nature,  I  will 
burn  the  paper,  and  hang  up  the  messenger.  This  is  the  im- 
mutable resolution,  and  shall  be  the  undoubted  practice  of  him 
who  accounts  it  his  chiefest  glory  to  be  his  majesty's  most  loyal 

and  obedient  subject. 

"  Derby." 

Scarce  had  these  stirring  and  memorable  lines  flowed  from 
the  pen  of  the  brave  and  noble  cavalier,  before  he  was  again 
called  to  prove  in  the  field  that  indomitable  loyalty,  for  which 
his  race  was  so  nobly  conspicuous. 

The  Second  Charles,  proclaimed  by  his  Scottish  subjects,  who 
had  revolted  against  the  grim  intolerance  and  fanaticism  of  the 
independents,  had  remained  well  nigh  two  years  in  their  camp,, 
rather  indeed  a  prisoner  than  a  king,  but  had  still,  in  spite  of 
1  the  fatal  defeat  at  Dunbar,  maintained  his  position  as  monarch, 
and  kept  up  his  own  hopes  and  those  of  his  well-wishers,  of  one 
day  recovering  his  English  crown.  And  now,  at  length,  had 
the  day  arrived.  Profiting  by  a  false  movement  of  Cromwell, 
who,  being  pressed  for  supplies,  was  compelled  to  leave  the  way 
into  England  open  to  the  Scots,  he  rushed  down,  high  of  hope, 
into  the  centre  of  his  native  realm,  trusting  to  rally  on  himself 
all  the  stout  cavaliers  of  the  northern  and  the  midland  counties, 


286  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  by  a  daring  stroke  to  master  the  metropolis  before  Oliver 
could  retrace  his  steps,  or  come  up  with  his  rear. 

But  little  knew  he  of  the  giant  with  whom  he  had  to  do. 

Rapidly  he  marched  southward,  but  tardily  and  feebly  came 
in  the  levies  of  the  cavaliers.  Defeat  and  death  had  thinned 
their  numbers,  had  tamed  their  high,  hot  blood,  had  rendered 
them,  although  brave  as  ever,  hopeless  and  averse  to  further 
struggles.  Sequestrations  and  confiscations  had  narrowed  their 
resources;  their  plate,  their  silver  candlesticks  and  posset  dishes, 
had  been  melted  down  in  the  late  king's  service  ;  their  trusty 
war-horses  were  dead  or  aged ;  their  gallant  sons  were  dead  on 
the  field  or  on  the  scaffold ;  their  brave  tenants  were  decimated, 
and  the  survivors  given  to  other  masters.  Never  have  men  so 
fought,  so  bled,  so  suffered  for  any  cause  or  king,  as  have  the 
cavaliers  of  England  for  that  most  lamentable  and  disastrous 
house  of  Stuart — never  have  men  met  with  such  ingratitude. 

Levies  and  men  came  in  slowly — but  at  the  first  trumpet  call, 
the  foot  of  Derby  was  in  the  stirrup,  the  blue  scarf  of  the  king 
upon  his  breast,  the  king's  black  feather  in  his  hat — he  left  his 
castle  to  the  keeping  of  his  noble  wife,  and  as  he  kissed  her 
proud  fair  brow  at  parting — "  It  may  be,"  he  said,  "  that  we 
shall  meet  no  more  on  earth,  but  we  shall  meet  in  heaven ! 
Mourn  not  for  me,  therefore,  Charlotte,  if  I  fall,  but  be  strong 
and  brave  in  duty." 

And  she  replied,  "  Do  but  your  duty,  and  I  will  not  mourn, 
save  in  the  secret  heart ;  and  when  you  are  saint  in  heaven, 
look  you  down  on  us,  and  see  if  I  do  not  mine." 

His  race  was  soon  run,  and  his  days  numbered.  His  small 
detachment  cut  off  and  overpowered  at  Wigan  Lane,  he  still 
made  good  his  way  to  Worcester,  and  fought  there  the  last 
desperate  fight  for  Charles  ;  nor  when  that  day  was  lost,  stern 
Cromwell's  crowning  mercy,  did  he  desert  his  king,  but  saw  him 


CHARLOTTE    DE    LA    TREMOUILLE.  287 

placed  in  safety,  before  he  thought,  too  late,  of  his  own  pre- 
servation. 

A  skirmish,  a  prisoner — a  court-martial,  a  convicted  culprit 
— a  block  and  a  martyr — that  was  the  last  of  Derby. 

She  heard,  but  wept  not,  nor  despaired,  but  did  her  duty, 
mourning  in  the  secresy  of  her  heart  only. 

Until  not  one  English  flag,  save  of  the  commonwealth  alone, 
was  flying,  she  held  out  her  island  fortalice,  and  so  stern  had 
been  her  defence,  so  great  was  their  fear  of  her  desperation,  that 
the  parliament,  on  the  surrender  of  her  strongholds  and  her 
submission  to  their  usurping  government,  permitted  her  to  re- 
tain her  estates,  and  enjoy  their  revenues,  and  she  dwelt  there, 
educating  her  orphan  son,  as  such  a  mother  only  can  educate 
a  man  ;  adored  by  her  islanders,  respected  by  Englishmen  in 
general,  and  unmolested,  if  unreverenced,  by  the  parliamenta- 
rian chiefs,  until  the  restoration  of  King  Charles  II.  renewed 
her  persecutions,  and  perhaps  brought  her  nearer  to  the  block 
than  the  worst  enmity  of  his  enemies. 

She  escaped  all  the  perils  of  the  pretended  plot ;  bore  all  her 
sufferings  to  the  last,  as  she  had  borne  the  first ;  returned  to 
her  island  home,  not  the  least  instance  of  the  ingratitude  of 
kings,  lived  in  perpetual  weeds  for  her  lost  lord — and  died  a 
good  wife,  a  good  mother,  a  good  mistress,  a  good  subject — truly 
a  heroine  of  all  time,  and  conspicuous  on  the  page  of  history,  as 
the  last  lady  that  has  levied  war,  or  that  shall  levy  war  again 
for  ever  within  the  kingdom  of  Great  Britain. 


tf Jje  Xittg'0  # rafifttte, 


OR, 


KING  CHARLES  II.  AND  HIS  COURT. 


1682. 


THE  KING'S  GRATITUDE; 

OE,  KING  CHAELES  II.  AND  HIS  COUET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SIR   REGINALD    BELLARMYNE,    AN    OLD    SOLDIER    OF   THE    KING'S. 

It  was  on  a  fine  sunshiny  morning  of  September,  1653,  that 
Sir  Reginald  Bellarmyne  sat  by  the  wide  hearth  of  the  summer 
parlor,  which  he  occupied  when  there  were  no  guests,  as  was 
for  the  most  part  now  the  case  in  the  once  hospitable  cloisters 
of  Bellarmyne  Abbey. 

A  small  round  table  at  his  elbow  displayed  the  relics  of  a 
large  hare-pasty — it  would  have  been  venison  in  the  good  days 
of  old ;  and,  in  lieu  of  stoups  of  Malvoisie  and  Bourdeaux  wine, 
a  solitary  silver  tankard  thrust  forward  its  capacious  womb, 
mantling  with  stout  English  ale  recently  stirred  with  the  sprig 
of  rosemary,  then  held  to  impart  a  sovereign  relish  to  the  sub- 
stantial joint ;  nor  did  it  appear,  from  the  inroads  the  good 
baronet  had  made  on  the  contents  of  both,  that  his  appetite  had 
suffered  seriously  from  the  retrenchment  of  luxuries  which  he 
had,  perhaps,  once  deemed  necessaries  to  his  rank  and  station. 
He  was  a  man  of  sixty  years  or  upwards,  who  must  at  a  former 


292  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

period  of  his  life,  have  been  eminently  handsome,  and  who  still 
retained  in  his  erect  form,  clear  eye,  and  nobly  cast  features, 
many  traces  of  the  beauty  for  which  he  had  once  been  cele- 
brated, even  in  the  courts  of  the  great  and  famous  monarch.  He 
had,  however,  grown  of  latter  years  somewhat  ponderous  and 
corpulent ;  and  his  sinister  leg  wrapped  in  flannels,  and  bol- 
stered up  on  an  easy  stool,  gave  painful  evidence  of  that  dis- 
temper which  is  held  to  visit  upon  the  children  the  pleasant 
indulgences  of  their  forefathers.  Otherwise,  Sir  Reginald's  ap- 
pearance showed  no  token  of  those  excesses  which  were  unfor- 
tunately so  much  in  vogue,  in  those  days,  among  the  cavaliers 
and  courtiers  of  the  king,  as  to  be  regarded  almost  one  of  their 
characteristics.  His  eye  was  clear  and  calm,  his  complexion 
pale  rather  than  flushed ;  and  his  frame,  though  somewhat 
unwieldy,  was  well-knit,  and  still  capable,  when  he  was  not 
laboring  under  the  attacks  of  the  ancestral  enemy,  of  both  effort 
and  exertion. 

His  hair,  which  he  still  wore  long  and  unpowdered,  not  having 
adopted  the  new-fashioned  abomination  of  the  periwig,  was, 
indeed,  very  grey  J  his  brow  was  deeply,  wrinkled ;  and  there 
was  a  singular  expression,  weary  and  wasted,  yet  intelligent  and 
keen  withal,  and  full,  of  eager  energy,  pervading  all  the  lines  of 
his  face,  which  seemed  to  tell  a  history  of  cares,  and  troubles, 
and  anxieties — perhaps  of  almost  mortal  sorrows — encountered, 
resisted,  combated  inch  by  inch  as  a  man  should  combat  such 
things,  if  not  vanquished  by  him. 

He  was  dressed  at  all  points  as  became  a  gentleman,  in  an 
age  when  the  distinctive  garb  of  the  different  classes  was  main- 
tained in  all  strictness,  and  when  scarcely  an  article  of  wearing 
apparel  wras  common  to  the  nobly  born,  and  to  the  next  beneath 
him  in  station ;  but  yet  so  dressed  that  it  was  evidently  rather 
a  matter  of  etiquette  and  self-respect  than  of  convenience  with 


THE    KINGS    GRATITUDE.  293 

him  to  maintain  the  outward  show  of  his  family.  His  doublet 
of  uncut  velvet  was  rather  suited  for  the  field  sports,  or  out-door 
occupations,  than  for  the  full  morning-dress  of  a  country  gen- 
tleman of  the  day ;  yet  it  was  evident  from  the  ruffles  at  wrist 
and  knee,  from  the  neat  russet-leather  buskins,  and  the  long 
rapier,  with  its  ornamental  shoulder-belt,  that  he  wore  it  as  his 
habitual  and  distinctive  attire. 

A  slouched  grey  hat,  with  a  drooping  feather,  and  a  dark- 
green  roquelaure  lay  neatly  folded  and  brushed  on  a  slab  hard  by, 
together  with  a  crutch-headed  cane  mounted  with  a  fine  red- 
deer's  antler,  and  a  pair  of  fringed  buckskin  gloves,  that  would 
have  reached  well-nigh  to  the  elbow  of  the  wearer. 

A  noble  deer  greyhound,  of  the  great  Scottish  breed,  and  of 
the  largest  size,  long  of  limb,  long  of  muzzle,  wire-haired,  with 
deep,  earnest  hazel  eyes,  lay  on  the  deer-skin  which  covered  the 
hearth-stone,  gazing  into  the  face  of  his  master  with  almost 
superhuman  intelligence ;  while  a  couple  of  smaller  dogs,  fine 
curly-fleeced  water-spaniels,  dozed  closer  to  the  embers  of  the 
wood-fire,  which  the  autumnal  atmosphere,  and  the  thick  walls 
of  the  ancient  abbaye,  rendered  anything  rather  than  unpleasant. 
The  parlor  itself  in  which  he  sat  showed,  like  its  master,  some- 
thing at  least  of  privation,  if  not  of  absolute  poverty;  the  old 
oak  wainscoting,  indeed,  was  as  brightly  polished  ;  the  old  high- 
backed  chairs  and  settles,  with  their  quaint  carvings  and  old 
tapestried  cushions,  were  as  free  from  any  speck  of  mould ;  the 
antique  suits  of  steel-armor  on  the  walls  were  as  clear  from  rust ; 
the  modern  implements  of  falconry  or  the  chase  were  in  as 
accurate  order  and  arrangement  as  if  a  hundred  zealous  hands 
were  daily  employed  in  furbishing  them.  Still  there  was 
nothing  gay,  nothing  lightsome,  nothing  new ;  nothing  in  all 
the  furniture  or  decorations  of  the  room  which  did  not  wear  a 
wan  and  faded  aspect,  as  if  they  had  been  coeval  at  least  with 


294  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

their  aged  possessor;  and  as  if,  like  him,  they  had  seen  their 
better  days. 

Without,  so  far  as  could  be  seen  from  the  large  oriel  window, 
the  stone  mullions  of  which  were  so  much  overrun  with  clus- 
tering ivy  and  woodbines  as  to  indicate  some  slackness  on  the 
gardener's  part,  things  did  not,  on  the  whole,  wear  a  more  pro- 
mising or  brighter  aspect.  The  fine  elm  avenue,  which  wound 
away  for  above  a  mile,  in  full  view,  a  broad  belt  of  massive 
verdure,  had  grown  all  out  of  shape  and  rule ;  the  great  boughs 
of  many  of  the  trees  sweeping  so  low  as  to  render  the  road 
impassable  to  carriages,  and  difficult  even  to  travellers  on  horse- 
back. The  lawn,  immediately  around  the  house,  which  had  in 
its  palmier  days  been  so  neatly  shorn  and  rolled,  and  decorated 
with  trim  clumps  of  evergreens,  and  marble  urns  and  statues, 
was  all  grown  up  with  coarse,  long  grass,  among  which  the 
hares  and  rabbits  fed  boldly  as  unscared  by  man  ;  and  the  wild 
park  beyond,  with  all  its  sunny  fern-clad  knolls,  and  rich  shel- 
tered hollows  so  closely  pastured  of  old  by  the  graceful  herds  of 
fallow  deer,  showed  but  a  wide  expanse  of  rank  untended  vege- 
tatidn,  stocked  with  no  denizens  more  aristocratical  than  a  flock 
of  ragged-looking,  black-faced,  mountain-muttons,  a  score  of 
little  sharp-horned  kyloe  oxen,  and  two  or  three  queer-visaged 
Shetland  ponies,  not  much  larger  and  much  more  ragged  than 
the  moorland  sheep  with  which  they  kept  company. 

The  fish-ponds,  one  or  two  of  which  were  visible  among  the 
trees,  scarcely  gleamed  blue,  unless  in  casual  spots,  under  the 
bright  sky  of  autumn,  so  thickly  were  they  overspread  with 
water-grass  and  the  green,  slimy  duckweed;  the  gravel  road 
before  the  door  was  matted  with  weeds,  as  if  no  wheel-track 
had  disturbed  it  for  years. 

All  was  a  picture  of  neglect  and  desolation,  yet  beautiful 
withal,  from  the  very  wildness  and  liberty  of  the  unchecked 


the  king's  gratitude.  295 

vegetation,  and  the  frequency  of  those  unusual  sounds,  so  sel- 
dom heard  in  the  close  vicinity  of  the  abodes  of  men — the  in- 
cessant cooings  of  the  hoarse  woodpigeons,  the  crow  of  the 
cock-pheasants  from  the  garden  walks,  the  harsh  half-barking 
bleat  of  the  moorland  sheep,  and,  most  rarely  heard  of  all,  the 
deep  booming  of  the  bitterns  from  the  stagnant  morass,  into 
which  the  fish-ponds  were  fast  degenerating. 

It  was  not  difficult,  though  sad  it  was,  either  to  understand 
or  to  explain.  Sir  Reginald  Bellarmyne,  of  Bellarmyne  Abbey, 
a  baronet  and  a  catholic,  as  long  as  there  had  been  catholics 
or  baronets  in  England,  loyalist  and  royalist,  like  all  his  fellows, 
had  in  his  own  person,  and  in  that  of  his  fathers  before  him, 
fought  always  on  the  wrong  king's  side,  so  far  as  fortune  was 
concerned,  whatever  might  be  said  of  fidelity. 

One  ancestor  had  perished  on  Crook-back  Richard's  side,  at 
Bosworth ;  his  grandson,  and  Sir  Reginald's  grandfather,  had 
fallen  under  the  heavy  censure  of  the  man-hearted  queen,  Eliza- 
beth, and  escaped  narrowly  with  life,  for  Scottish  Mary's  sake. 
The  baronet's  own  father,  most  unjustly,  as  they  ever  averred, 
was  mulcted  thirty  thousand  pounds  after  the  gunpowder  affair 
of  Fawkes,  with  which  they  denied  all  participation ;  and  himself, 
as  he  most  undisguisedly  proclaimed,  had  fought  for  King 
Charles  on  every  stricken  field  from  Edgehill  to  Worcester 
fight ;  and  when  all  was  lost,  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  his 
son  in  foreign  lands,  and  melted  his  last  ounce  of  plate  to  sup- 
port the  needy  parasites  of  the  discrowned  and  exiled  king. 

Mulcts,  confiscations,  forfeitures,  in  past  reigns,  had  done 
much ;  the  sequestrations  under  the  parliament,  for  confirmed 
and  inveterate  malignancy,  all  but  completed  the  ruin  of  that 
old,  honorable  family,  as  true  and  as  English  as  the  old  oaks  of 
Bellarmyne.  The  last  forfeiture  would  have  completed  it  alto- 
gether, but  that,  by  a  strange  chance,  the  abbey,  and  a  part  of 


296  PERSONS    AND   PICTURES. 

the  estates  immediately  attached  to  it,  being  entailed  most 
strictly  on  the  male  heirs  of  the  name  for  ever,  an  unknown, 
and  almost  unsuspected  cousin  of  the  late  Sir  Armytage  Bellar- 
myne,  turned  up  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  in  the  shape  of  a  city 
merchant,  and  a  friend  of  some  among  the  powers  that  were, 
after  justice  had  been  done  on  the  "Man  of  Blood,"  as  they  termed 
it.  He  interposed  the  claim  of  himself  and  his  son,  who  was 
serving  at  the  time  under  Lockhart  against  the  Spaniards  at 
Dunkirk;  thereby  preventing  the  alienation  of  the  property, 
which  was  sorely  coveted  by  a  puritan  drysalter  of  the  West 
Eiding,  from  the  old  name  of  the  feudal  tenure. 

No  sequestration  occurred,  therefore,  of  the  last  demesnes  of 
the  House  of  Bellarmyne ;  and,  at  the  Restoration,  the  old,  bat- 
tered, widowed  cavalier  returned,  with  one  daughter,  who  had 
been  educated  in  a  French  convent — his  only  son,  the  promise 
of  his  race,  had  fallen,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  fighting  like  a  man  by 
his  side  at  Worcester — to  all  that  now  remained  of  the  once 
broad  possessions ;  the  old  abbey,  a  world  too  wide  for  the 
shrunken  acres  that  now  alone  looked  up  to  its  time-honored 
belfries. 

The  city  cousin,  the  Bellarmyne  of  London,  like  an  honest 
man  and  a  good  Christian  as  he  was,  though  a  heretic  in  the 
parlance  of  Rome — and  a  true  gentleman,  although  he  smacked 
a  little  of  the  puritan — had  ever  remitted  the  rents  of  the  ab- 
bey to  Sir  Reginald,  whom  he  constantly  acknowledged,  though 
he  had  never  seen  him,  as  the  head  of  the  house  during  the 
whole  period  of  his  exile ;  and,  on  the  restoration  of  King  Charles 
II.,  to  which,  with  others  of  the  eminent  London  merchants,  he 
had  largely  contributed,  made  over  to  him,  as  a  matter  of  right, 
and  of  course,  and  in  no  wise  as  a  favor,  the  mansion  and  the 
remnant  of  the  lands,  somewhat  neglected,  indeed,  and  out  of 
order,  but  neither  dilapidated  nor  exhausted. 


the  king's  gratitude.  297 

It  is,  perhaps,  to  be  regretted  that,  at  this  time,  no  personal 
meeting  occurred  between  the  kinsmen,  for  they  were  both 
men  of  high  character,  high  minds,  and  correct  feelings ;  but 
having  had  no  intercourse,  each  had  probably  in  some  sort  con- 
ceived of  the  other,  something  of  the  character  ascribed  to  his 
political  party.  The  protestant  merchant  took  it  too  much, 
and  as  it  proved  wrongfully,  for  granted,  that  the  old  cavalier 
and  inveterate  swordsman  was  more  or  less  the  rash,  reckless, 
rakehelly  debauchee  and  rioter  of  his  day  and  class ;  and  con- 
tented with  having  done  justice,  thought  no  more  about  the 
matter,  nor  troubled  himself  about  his  cousin,  or  his  affairs. 

The  old  soldier,  more  naturally,  after  he  had  acknowledged 
frankly  the  honorable  conduct  of  his  unknown  kinsman,  and 
expressed  his  sense  of  obligation,  shrank  from  anything  that 
could  savor  of  intrusion,  or  a  desire  of  establishing  any  sort  of 
claim  or  clientelage  on  his  rich  and  powerful  relation.  It  is 
probable  that  something  might  have  added  to  this  delicacy,  in 
the  shape  of  the  cavalier's  distaste  to  the  puritan,  the  romanist's 
aversion  to  the  heretic,  and,  yet  more,  of  the  soldier's  distrust 
and  prejudice  against  the  trader. 

Still,  none  of  these  motives  were  very  strong — for  it  was  well 
known  that  Nicholas  Bellarmyne  of  the  city,  though  neutral 
throughout,  and,  at  the  commencement  of  the  troubles,  inclined 
more  to  the  parliament,  had  never  joined  the  independents, 
much  less  identified  himself  with  the  regicides.  Sir  Reginald 
himself,  moreover,  though  a  catholic,  was  such  rather  because 
he  would  not  abjure  the  creed  of  his  fathers  than  that  he  had 
anything  in  him  of  the  persecutor ;  and  he  had  seen  so  much, 
in  the  Low  Countries,  of  the  noble  merchants  of  those  days,  when 
merchants  were  men  of  patriotism,  intelligence,  and  honor,  that 
he  was  unusually  free  from  the  prejudices  of  the  noble  against 
the  trader  caste. 

14 


298  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

;  Neither  of  the  two,  in  fact,  knew  much  of  the  circumstances 
or  character  of  the  other ;  and  neither  was,  at  this  time,  even 
aware  that  his  distant  kinsman  was  a  father,  though  from  his 
energy  in  the  matter  of  the  entail,  Sir  Reginald  might  suspect 
that  the  merchant  had  some  further  representative. 

On  his  diminished  estates,  then,  which  barely  now  gave  re- 
turns sufficient  for  the  maintenance  of  himself  and  his  child, 
with  a  household  the  most  limited,  and  on  the  narrowest  scale 
compatible  with  his  rank  and  name,  Sir  Reginald  settled  himself 
quietly,  afar  from  the  tumult,  the  dissipation,  and  the  heartless- 
ness  of  courts ;  perceiving  at  once  that  he  had  nothing  to  expect 
from  the  gratitude  or  generosity,  much  less  from  the  justice  of 
the  sovereign,  whose  seal  and  sign-manual  he  held,  as  well  as 
that  of  his  unhappy  father,  for  sums  advanced  as  loans,  the 
repayment  of  which  would  have  more  than  redeemed  all  the 
recent  losses  of  the  Bellarmynes,  and  enabled  them  to  resume 
their  appropriate  station  in  the  country. 

Had  he  been  alone  in  the  world,  it  is  more  than  probable 
that  Sir  Reginald  would  have  resigned  himself  contentedly  to 
his  diminished  circumstances,  and  would  have  ultimately  sunk, 
more  or  less  graciously,  and  with  more  or  less  repining,  into  the 
condition  of  the  fox-hunting,  ale-consuming  squire  of  the  day, 
something  above  the  farmer,  but. far  from  equal  to  the  country 
gentleman  of  England.  The  great  nobles  who  in  past  reigns, 
up  to  the  unfortunate  days  of  the  unhappy  Stuarts,  had  been 
used  to  live  on  their  own  estates,  in  their  viceregal  castles, 
during  ten  months  of  the  year,  holding  cour-pleniere  of  the 
lesser  gentry,  and  collecting  around  them  the  intelligence,  the 
civilization,  and  the  splendor  of  their  several  shires,  no  longer 
lived — like  their  forefathers — independent  nobles  on  their  own 
hereditary  principalities. 

During  the  troublous  times,  which  had  scarcely  passed  over, 


THE    KING  S    GRATITUDE.  299 

most  of  them  wandering  as  exiles  in  foreign  lands,  France  more 
especially,  they  had  contracted  the  false  and  pernicious  usage 
of  abandoning  their  demesnes  and  rural  residences  to  bailiffs 
and  intendants ;  and  wasting  profligate,  dishonorable,  useless 
lives  about  the  precincts  of  the  royal  court;  parasites  of  kings ; 
loungers  at  the  Exchange ;  gamblers  at  Tonbridge  Wells  or 
Newmarket ;  fribblers  and  coxcombs,  almost  as  free  from  any 
manly  vice,  as  from  any  grace  or  virtue. 

At  this  time  England  had  lost  entirely  that  strong  and  living 
feature  of  her  social  and  political  character — her  rural  aristo- 
cracy, the  greatest  men  of  the  land  living  among  and  with  their 
people,  as  if  themselves  of  the  people ;  and  regarded  rather  by 
the  throne  in  the  light  of  allied  or  kindred  princes  than  as 
mere  subjects — much  less  as  mere  flatterers  and  courtiers. 

From  the  accession  of  King  James  the  First  to  the  death  of 
Queen  Anne,  England  was  virtually  Frenchified  ;  she  had  no 
longer  a  great  nobility,  but  she  had  in  lieu  of  it  a  little  noblesse 
of  the  court  clique,  of  favorites  of  the  great  man,  of  favorites  of 
the  bad  woman  of  the  day. 

The  lodgings  of  the  metropolis  were  crowded  with  great  lords, 
crouching  and  crawling,  and  doing  unutterable  basenesses  at 
the  feet  of  a  minister,  whose  grandfathers  their  grandfathers 
would  have  hung  from  their  battlements ! — the  country  was 
deserted  to  rude  boors,  drunken  ignoramus  squires,  time-serving, 
grotesque  parsons,  who  thought  it  an  advancement  to  marry 
the  lady-of-the-manor's  waiting- worn  an. 

Coxcombry,  profligacy,  infidelity,  insolvency,  false  refinement, 
and  favoritism  at  court,  had  reflected  themselves  in  grossness, 
ignorance,  brutality,  and  want  of  all  refinement  in  the  country. 
In  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  there  was  scarce  a  gentleman  in  all 
England ;  and  if  there  were  one,  he  was  something  out  of  place, 
ridiculous,  and  obsolete,  without  honor  at  court,  or  influence  in 


300  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

the  country.     And  such,  in  sooth,  was  Sir  Reginald  Bellar- 
myne. 


CHAPTER  II. 

mistress  rosamond  bellarmyne  ;   a  maid-of-honor  of  the 
queen's. 

It  would  have  been  a  difficult  thing,  even  in  England,  that 
land  of  female  loveliness,  to  find  a  brighter  specimen  of  youthful 
beauty  than  was  presented  by  Rosamond  Bellarmyne,  when 
she  returned  to  her  home,  then  in  her  sixteenth  year,  after  wit- 
nessing the  joyful  procession  of  the  29th  of  May,  which  ter- 
minated in  the  installation  of  the  son  in  that  palace  of  Whitehall 
from  which  his  far  worthier  father  had  gone  forth  to  die. 

She  was  a  perfect  type,  in  a  word,  of  the  most  purely  English 
type  of  insular  beaut)r.  -A  trifle  above  the  middle  height  of 
women,  her  shape  was  exquisitely  formed,  so  fully  yet  so  deli- 
cately developed  that  it  never  occurred  to  the  spectator  to  ask 
himself  whether  she  was  taller  or  shorter,  plumper  or  slenderer, 
than  the  average  of  her  sex.  Her  complexion  was  that  of  her 
native  isle,  pure  as  the  drifted  snow,  yet  with  a  rich  undertone  of 
warm  health  showing  itself,  like  the  light  within  an  alabaster 
lamp,  in  an  equable  and  genial  glow,  not  fitfully  or  in  electric 
flashes.  Her  large,  well  opened  eyes  were  of  the  darkest  shade  of 
blue,  yet  full  of  the  quickest  and  most  mirthful  light;  so  that, 
when  her  lips  smiled,  her  eyes  anticipating  them  appeared  to  over- 
flow their  dark  lashes  with  silent  laughter.  Features  are  not  de- 
scribable ;  nor  could  any  description  give  even  a  faint  idea  of  the 
varied  expression  of  her  rich  beauty,  or  of  the  exceeding  fasci- 


the  king's  gratitude.  301 

nation  of  her  smile.  Yet  it  was  in  her  expression  more  espe- 
cially that  lay  the  charm  of  Rosamond  Bellarmyne ;  and  those 
who  knew  her  the  best  asserted  that  her  expression  figured 
forth,  and  that  not  darkly,  the  character  of  her  mind  and 
genius. 

When  she  arrived  in  England  and  took  possession  with  her 
father  of  the  old  abbey,  one  thing  at  least  was  evident  to  all  be- 
holders, that  neither  a  life  spent  abroad — for  she  could  scarcely 
lisp  her  native  tongue  when  she  left  the  land  of  her  birth — nor 
six  years  of  convent  discipline  had  availed  anything  to  dena- 
tionalize her,  whether  in  outward  show  or  in  inward  spirit. 

She  was  from  top  to  toe  an  English  girl ;  English  no  less  in 
her  faults  and  failings  than  in  her  solid  and  sterling  excellences. 
Frank  and  fearless,  truthful  and  free-spoken,  she  would  at  times 
push  these  brave  qualities  hard  on  towards  the  verge  beyond 
which  they  cease  to  be  virtues.  Conscious  of  no  wrong  thought, 
and  confident  of  her  own  strong  will  and  pure  intent,  she  gave 
perhaps  too  little  heed  to  the  opinion  of  others,  even  when 
such  might  have  been  worth  consulting.  Nor,  speaking  as  she 
was  wont  to  do  constantly  on  the  first  rightful  impulse,  did  it 
fail  to  occur  frequently  that  she  spoke  thoughts  aloud  which 
better  had  been  left  unspoken.  And  doing  things  unadvisedly, 
or  against  advice,  for  she  would  listen  to  none  whom  she  did  not 
both  love  and  respect,  she  often  did  what  she  repented. 

Such  was  the  heiress  of  the  broken  fortunes  of  Bellarmyne, 
when  the  restoration  of  the  king  to  his  own,  restored  her  father, 
with  many  another  storm  and  battle-beaten  cavalier,  to  the 
possession  of  his  old  impoverished  demesnes  ;  and  in  the  two 
years  which  ensued  previous  to  the  marriage  of  Charles  with 
the  Infanta,  little  occurred  to  alter,  however  the  lapse  of  time 
might  tend  to  mature,  her  person  and  her  mind. 

Entirely  deprived  of  female  society  of  her  own  rank,  and 


302  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

indeed  of  intercourse  with  her  own  sex  beyond  a  staid,  demure 
personage  who  had  been  her  mother's  chamber-woman,  and  a 
gay  French  girl  from  Provence,  she  had  learned  no  conventional 
lessons  of  etiquette,  much  less  of  courtliness  or  worldly  pru- 
dence, among  the  sequestered  hills  and  dales  of  the  West- 
Riding  of  Yorkshire  in  which  Bellarmyne  abbey  was  situated ; 
button  the  contrary,  had  become  more  and  more  the  child  of 
nature,  high-souled,  intelligent,  affectionate,  docile  to  gentle 
spiritings,  and  easily  amenable  to  reason,  but  quick  of  impulse, 
firm  of  purpose,  and  utterly  ungovernable  by  mere  formulas  and 
maxims. 

It  is  npt  strange  that  Sir  Reginald,  deprived  of  the  means  of 
maintaining  his  own  station,  and  associating  with  his  own 
equals  in  his  county — a  deprivation  to  which  his  habits  of  en- 
durance in  the  field,  and  with  the  foreigners,  might  in  some  sort 
have  inured  himself — should  have  been  liable  to  deep  solicitude, 
nay,  even  to  dark  despondency,  when  he  looked  upon  this 
creature,  endowed  with  everything  that  should  fit  her  to  grace 
the  world,  condemned  to  absolute  seclusion,  or,  desperate  alter- 
native, the  worse  than  rude  society  of  the  Ghylls. 

A  lady  of  the  highest  and  most  delicate  culture,  of  the  most 
refined  tastes  and  accomplishments,  who,  in  so  much  as  she  had 
mingled  yet  in  the  great  world,  had  been  familiar  with  the  first 
personages  of  the  first  European  court,  that  of  the  magnificent 
Louis  XIV.,  what  could  she  have  in  common  with  the  yeoman 
farmers  of  the  fells  and  dales,  or  with  such  simple-hearted  un- 
taught hoydens  as  their  wives  or  sisters  ?  What  could  he  do 
for  her,  himself  living — what  should  become  of  her,  when,  in 
his  season,  he  should  have  passed  away  and  perished,  like  the 
leaves  of  his  own  oak  trees  in  November  ?  Such  thoughts, 
far  more  than  the  gloom  of  gathering  years,  more  than  the 
twilight  of  his  waning  fortunes,  more  than  the  imminence  of 


the  king's  gratitude.  303 

pressing  poverty,  had  darkened  the  brow  and  saddened  the  heart 
of  the  failing  but  yet  unbroken  veteran. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  feelings  near  akin  to  delight,  that, 
within  a  few  months  after  the  marriage  of  the  king  to  Catharine 
of  Portugal,  the  baronet  received  a  grand  and  wordy  epistle 
from  a  remote  kinswoman,  the  widow  of  a  noble  earl — his  school- 
boy friend,  fellow-Oxonian,  fellow-soldier  through  the  fierce 
conflicts  of  civil  war,  dead  by  his  side  on  the  bloody  field  of 
Naseby — who  had  never  wholly  forgotten  her  own  distant  cousin, 
or  the  near  friend  of  her  lost  lord. 

This  estimable  lady,  who,  unhappily  gifted  with  a  son  too 
well  adapted  to  the  court,  and  too  well  liked  by  the  facile  king, 
had  never  descended  to  the  frivolities  of  the  restored  monarchy 
but  resided  afar  off  in  her  jointure  house,  in  Cornwall,  possessed 
yet  some  influence,  both  of  herself,  and  through  her  son  the 
favorite,  within  the  precincts  of  Whitehall. 

The  time  had  not  yet  arrived  when  to  possess  such  influence 
was  in  itself  almost  a  brand  of  infamy. 

Cognizant  of  the  extremity  to  which  were  reduced  the  for- 
tunes of  Bellarmyne,  and  expecting,  with  all  the  English  world, 
that  the  marriage  of  the  monarch  would  establish  decorum  at 
least  and  decency  in  the  court  of  England's  king,  the  Coun- 
tess of  Throckmorton  had  exerted  .her  influence,  and  that  suc- 
cessfully, in  procuring  for  the  beautiful  Bosamond  an  appoint- 
ment as  one  of  the  queen's  maids-of-honor ;  securing  to  her,  in 
addition  to  a  small  salary  and  apartments  in  the  palace,  an 
introduction  into  the  first  society  of  the- realm,  and  an  establish- 
ment on  the  most  unquestionable  footing,  as  it  should  seem,  both 
of  propriety  and  honor. 

Still  it  may  be  thought  that  the  lady  doubted,  though  it  did 
not  so  strike  the  sturdy  old  loyalist  Sir  Reginald — who  would  as 
soon  have  thought  of  doubting  the  moral  integrity  of  the  king 


304  PERSONS    AND    TICTURES. 

as  of  disputing  his  divine  right  to  the  crown — for  her  letter  was 
long,  verbose,  involved,  and  not  altogether  so  unquestioning  or 
hilarious  in  its  tone  as  was  the  response  of  the  old  cavalier. 

Since  it  had  pleased  heaven,  it  ran,  that  in  lieu  of  a  son  to 
the  house  of  Bellarmyne,  whom  it  would  have  been  an  easy 
matter  to  help  to  advancement  in  aid  of  his  own  honorable 
efforts,  to  give  her  cousin  a  weak  girl  only,  who  so  far  from 
helping  to  restore  the  fortunes  of  the  house,  could  not  even  be 
expected  to  help,  in  any  considerable  degree,  herself — and 
whereas  she,  the  countess,  feared,  and  was  sore  grieved  to  think, 
that  Sir  Reginald  could  scarce  h&ve  the  means — without  even 
looking  forward  to  advancing  her  young  cousin  Rosamond,  or 
settling  her  in  due  season  in  marriage  in  her  proper  station — 
wherewithal  to  bring  up  the  child  conformably  to  her  degree,  it 
might  not  be  amiss  to  bestow  her  for  a  time  in  the  servitude  of 
her  most  gracious  majesty,  who  was  esteemed  to  be  a  most 
gentle  and  kind-hearted  lady,  and  withal,  of  the  true  church. 

And,  thereafter,  the  various  privileges,  immunities,  and  ad- 
vantages of  the  position  being  duly  and  appreciatingly  recorded, 
many  sage  points  of  advice  were' intermingled  ;  many  hints  as 
to  the  dangers,  the  temptations,  the  insidice  to  honor  and  virtue 
incidental  to  court  life  were  not  obscurely  added ;  the  principal 
reliance  of  the  countess  appeared  to  rest  on  the  character,  not 
merely  for  sag  esse  in  the  French  meaning  of  the  term,  but  for 
candor/ stability,  and  persistency  which  she  had  learned — by  what 
means  it  was  not  stated — that  Rosamond  possessed,  and  not  on 
any  safeguards  she  must  expect  to  find  in  her  new  situation. 

She  advised  her  cousin  Reginald  to  weigh  the  matter  well 
within  himself,  and  to  consult  with  Mistress  Rosamond,  con- 
cealing from  her  nothing  of  the  frivolities,  and  baseness,  and 
wickedness  of  the  court,  and  of  her  own  especial  liability  to 
perils  and  temptations,  before  accepting  the  offer. 


the  king's  gratitude.  305 

Nor  did  lie  perceive  anything,  in  the  prospective  of  circum- 
stances and  the  reasonable  chances  of  life,  as  eligible,  or  even 
less  eligible,  so  it  were  honorable  and  secure,  did  she  counsel 
him  to  be  in  haste  to  accept  the  offer. 

For  the  rest,  should  he  judge  it  for  the  best  to  do  so,  she 
prayed  humbly  and  hopefully  tliat  it  should  turn  out  for  the 
best  here  and  hereafter ;  and  so,  with  kind  recollections  to  pretty 
Mistress  Rosamond — who,  she  heard,  was  in  truth  pretty  Mis- 
tress Rosamond — and  begging  her  to  wear  the  carcanet,  inclosed 
herewith,  in  memory  of  her  loving  kinswoman  and  godmother, 
she  remained  ever,  until  death,  his  dutiful  and  regardful  cousin 
and  friend,  not  forgetful  of  the  past, 

GlTENDOLEN    THROCKMORTON. 

But  save  the  news  itself,  all  was  thrown  away  on  the  stout 
Yorkshire  baronet.  The  promotion  was,  to  his  honest,  trustful 
soul,  as  honorable  as  it  was  in  a  worldly  view  acceptable — less 
an  advantage  than  a  distinction.  An  advancement,  in  short,  so 
splendid,  as  far  to  exceed  his  wildest  wishes. 

Educated  from  his  childhood  to  a  belief  in  the  divine  right  of 
kings,  and  in  the  impossibility  of  a  son  of  the  royal  martyr 
doing  wrong,  as  entire  as  his  faith  in  the  infallibility  of  his 
church,  he  would  have  regarded  it  no  less  treason  to  doubt  the 
one,  than  sacrilege  to  question  the  other. 

Accepting,  therefore,  joyously  all  that  there  was  acceptable 
in  the  tidings,  and  pshawing,  in  his  secret  heart,  at  the  cau- 
tions which  he  regarded  as  old  womanish  scruples,  he  wrote 
gratefully  and  with  a  full  heart  to  his  kinswoman,  at  her  Cor- 
nish manor  with  the  unpronounceable  name  ;  and,  proudly  com- 
municating to  Rosamond  the  news  of  her  glorious  prospects, 
set  about  making  such  preparations  as  the  narrowness  of  his 
means  permitted  for  sending,  or  conducting  rather,  his  daughter 

14* 


306  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

to  her  future  abode  under  the  shelter  of  the  wing  of  England's 
royalty. 

Many  of  the  herd  of  Bellarmyne  cattle  were  driven  to  Ripon 
markets,  many  of  the  ancestral  oaks  of  Bellarmyne  chase  came 
lumbering  to  the  earth  with  all  their  leafy  honors,  destined 
thereafter  to  ride,  under  England's  red-cross  flag,  the  briny 
waves,  scarce  Salter  than  the  tears  shed  by  their  stalwart  owner, 
as  he  saw  their  old  places  vacant,  and  the  green  park  dis- 
mantled of  its  noblest  ornaments. 

Even  by  dint  of  these  sacrifices,  little  of  splendor  was  effected 
in  the  outfit  of  the  queen's  young  maid-of-honor,  and  when  the 
aged  baronet,  presented  himself  at  court  by  his  old  colonel  the 
noble  Duke  of  Ormond,  had  delivered  up  his  fair  child  to  the 
royal  circle,  and  left  her  as  a  member  of  the  household  under 
the  care— nominal  care — of  the  mother-of-the-maids,  and  the  real 
guardianship  of  her  own  delicacy  and  virtue,  he  returned  alone 
to  the  ancient  abbey,  which  was  now  more  solitary,  sadder, 
stiller,  than  ever  before,  to  pass  his  old  days  alone,  in  increasing 
poverty,  increasing  infirmities,  increasing  despondency,  and, 
alas  !  decreasing  vigor  and  elasticity  whereby  to  endure  them. 

His  out-door  enjoyments  were  now  limited  to  an  occasional 
day's  coursing  in  the  park,  with  his  still  choicely  nurtured  grey- 
hounds, which  he  followed  on  a  stout,  gentle  hackney  ;  falconry 
and  the  chase  had  become  enterprises  of  too  much  pith  and 
moment  for  the  war-worn  cavalier ;  while  his  fireside  relaxations 
were  limited  to  the  study  of  his  two  books,  the  Bible  and  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare,  with  an  occasional  game  of  chess  and  a  cool 
tankard  with  the  vicar,  and — greatest  delight  of  all — the  peru- 
sal of  a  letter  from  Rosamond,  when  three  or  four  times  a  year 
the  tardy  and  irregular  post  brought  down  the  stirring  news  of 
the  loud  and  licentious  city  to  the  quiet  hills  and  pastoral  dales 
of  Yorkshire. 


the  king's  gratitude.  307 

These  letters  for  some  time,  until  above  a  year  had  passed, 
were  all  bright  and  sparkling.  Everything  seemed  to  wear 
the  couleur  de  rose  veritable;  his  majesty's  wit,  his  majesty's 
courtesy  and  frank  kindness ;  the  affectionate  and  genial  graces 
of  the  pretty,  interesting,  foreign  queen,  the  loveliness  of  the 
maids-of-honor,  the  belle  Jennings,  and  the  belle  Hamilton,  and 
the  lovely  Miss  Stewart,  and  the  merry,  witty,  gipsy  Miss  Price ; 
and  the  graces  and  accomplishments  of  the  unrivalled  courtiers 
of  the  day,  the  admirable  De  Grammont,  and  the  unapproach- 
able Anthony  Hamilton,  and  Sedley  and  Etherege,  and  the 
gallant  Buckhurst,  and  the  princely  Buckingham — these  were 
the  subjects  of  her  first  epistles,  and  their  burden,  that  all  and 
every  one  were  so  good-natured  and  so  kind  to  her,  little  Rosa- 
mond Bellarmyne,  that  she  felt  herself  there,  in  that  splendid 
court  of  Whitehall,  or  in  those  merry-makings  under  the  superb 
elms  of  Hampton  court,  or  in  those  rantipole  junketings  at  Ton- 
bridge  Wells,  or  in  those  grand  hunting  matches  at  Newmarket, 
or  races  on  Epsom  Downs,  every  bit  as  much  at  home,  every  bit  as 
safe,  and  almost — but  no,  not  quite — as  happy  as  she  used  to  be 
with  her  birds  and  flowers,  her  pigeons  and  her  pheasants,  and 
her  ponies,  and  her  poor  pensioners,  at  dear  old  Bellarmyne. 

And  the  old  man  rejoiced  and  exulted  as  he  read  them ;  and 
formed  strange  fancies  and  high  hopes,  hardly  admitted  even 
to  himself,  as  he  conned  them  over  in  his  own  mind ;  and  then 
rehearsed,  in  the  intervals  of  their  peaceful  chess,  to  his  good 
old  friend  Dr.  Fairfax,  how  his  little  girl  had  been  chosen  to  fill 
such  or  such  a  place  in  such  a  masque  Or  revel ;  and  how  the 
young  Marquis  of  Ossory,  or  this  or  that  more  illustrious  cour-' 
tier,  had  sought  her  hand  in  some  figure  dance,  which  had  been 
performed  with  such  good  fortune  as  to  elicit  royal  approbation 
— and  above  all,  how  the  same  little  girl's  head  was  entirely 
proof  against  all  the  flatteries  and  frivolities  of  the  great  world ; 


308  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  how  her  heart  was  still  in  the  right  place,  honest  and  true, 
and  frank  and  candid  ;  and  how,  in  a  word,  the  admired  and 
toasted,  and  already  famous  belle,  Mistress  Eosamond  Bellar- 
myne,  the  queen's  maid-of-honor,  was  still  the  same,  the  very 
same  good  little  Eosamond,  who  had  been  the  life  of  the  old 
abbey,  and  with  whose  departure  s©  much  of  that  life  had  de- 
parted.  ;; 

&,  By  and  bye,  however,  the  letters  were  changed,  though  the 
writer  still  seemed  to  be  unchanged — what  was  said  was,  beyond 
doubt,  said  truly  ;  but  much  appeared  to  be  left  unsaid.  There 
were  no  more  praises  of  the  maids-of-honor,  no  more  eulogies 
of  king  and  courtiers  ;  but  much  pity  for  the  queen. 

At  length  came  mention  of  annoyances,  almost  of  insults,  by 
a  person  not  named.  It  was  evident  even  to  Sir  Eeginald,  not 
usually  too  acute,  that  she  was  unhappy,  ill  at  ease.  Some- 
times he  fancied  that  she  felt  herself  in  danger  ;  but  he  never 
dreamed  that  she  concealed  half  her  grievances,  from  her 
knowledge  of  his  inability  to  aid  her,  and  fear  of  his  hot  temper 
and  violent  resentments. 

After  a  protracted  silence,  oame  a  wild,  sad,  anxious  letter, 
containing  a  dark  tale,  darkly  told,  of  imminent  peril  from  the 
same  unnamed  person  ;  of  timely  rescue  by  a  young  gentleman, 
likewise  nameless — rather  than  a  letter,  it  was  an  earnest  im- 
ploring cry,  to  be  removed  from  that  accursed  place,  or  ere  it 
should  be  too  late.  And,  therewith,  the  old  man's  eyes  were 
opened,  and  all  his  dreams  vanished.  He  would  have  set  forth, 
that  day,  that  hour,  to  fetch  her  home  at  all  risks  ;  but  his  in- 
firmity, rendered  more  acute  by  the  excitement  of  his  mind, 
forbade  locomotion. 

So  he  sat  in  his  old  hall  alone,  as  we  have  seen  him,  and 
chafed  and  fretted  himself  almost  into  madness,  from  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  impotence  to  assist  the  jewel  of  his  old  heart, 


the  kino's  gratitude.  309 

and  by  fears  for  her  safety,  worse  almost  than  the  worst  reality. 
One  wise  measure  he  took  promptly.  He  wrote  at  length, 
inclosing  his  child's  innocent  appeal,  to  their  good  kinswoman 
of  Throckmorton,  praying  her  aid  and  counsel  in  this  their  ex- 
tremity. Rosamond  he  advised  of  what  he  had  done ;  com- 
mended her  courage ;  praised  her ;  and  promised,  as  soon  as 
his  distemper  would  permit,  to  be  with  her  in  person. 

A  second  measure,  wiser  yet,  he  took  some  days  later ;  for 
it  cost  his  pride  many  a  pang,  and  to  do  it  at  all  was  a  great 
self-conquest.  He  wrote  to  Nicholas  Bellarmyne,  in  the  city, 
stating  the  whole  case — asking  nothing.  That  done,  he  could 
no  more  ;  he  waited,  in  darkness,  for  the  dawn. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CAPTAIN    BELLARMYNE  ;    A   YOUNG    SOLDIER    OF    THE  EMPEROR'S. 

A  beautiful  autumnal  day  had  drawn  to  its  close  some  three 
weeks  previous  to  the  little  incident  which  produced  Rosamond's 
letter,  and  caused  so  much  anxiety  and  suffering  to  the  old 
cavalier ;  and  she  was  sitting  alone  and  despondent  at  the  win- 
dow of  her  apartment  which  looked  over  the  gardens,  in  those 
days  extending  from  the  rear  of  the  exquisite  palace  of  White- 
hall to  the  banks  of  the  brimful  silver  river. 

But  she  had  no  eyes  for  the  shaven  lawns,  the  tufted. par- 
terres, or  the  moonlighted  bosom  of  the  argent  Thames;  no 
ears  for  the  sounds  of  merriment  and  music  which  came,  at 
times,  swelling  on  the  gentle  air  from  the  returning  barges  of 
pleasure  parties  and  homebound  revellers. 

She  thought  of  herself  only,  of  her  perplexities,  her  trials, 


310  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

her  undefended  situation,  her  offended  virtue,  her  menaced 
honor. 

For  she  had  discovered,  in  season,  both  the  offence  and  the 
menace ;  and  while  resenting  the  one,  and  fortifying  herself 
against  the  other,  had  learned  that,  in  the  path  of  virtue,  she 
might  hope  for  neither  encouragement  among  her  beautiful 
companions,  the  fair,  frail  maids-of-honor  ;  nor  for  the  chivalric 
defence  of  one  noble  heart  among  the  corrupt,  licentious  cour- 
tiers. To  the  king  an  appeal  for  support  would  have  been 
worse  than  absurd  ;  since  his  smiles,  his  encouragement,  his 
good  wishes,  were  all  with  the  offender. 

The  queen,  alas !  could  have  given  sympathy  and  tears  only, 
had  she  chosen  to  give  these  ;  but,  short  as  was  the  space  since 
her  espousals,  she  had  learned  already  the  sad  lesson  that,  to 
preserve  even  the  outward  semblance  of  her  husband's  respect, 
she  must  'turn  a  consenting  ey6  to  his  foibles,  and  interfere  with 
no  one  of  his  unroyal  pleasures. 

It  was,  perhaps,  wonderful  that — beautiful  and  accomplished 
as  was  Rosamond  Bellarmyne ;  and,  moreover,  from  her  very 
inexperience,  free-spoken  as  she  was  free-hearted — she  had  not 
been  singled  out  before  in  that  profligate  and  ungracious  court 
for  dishonorable  and  degrading  pursuit. 

But  it  had. so  happened  that,  when  she  arrived,  the  king  him- 
self had  eyes  or  ears  for  none  but  La  belle  Stewart — who,  by 
her  meretricious  half-consents  and  half-denials,  kept  him  sighing 
and  dangling  at  her  knees  longer  than  his  constancy  ever  en- 
dured for  any  other  maid  or  matron  ;  the  Duke  of  York,  for 
whose  gross  tastes  the  innocent  and  lively  Rosamond  would 
have  lacked  piquancy  and  vice,  was  in  the  chains  of  the  ill- 
favoured  and  brazen  Sedley ;  and  of  the  other  courtiers  none, 
perhaps,  dared — so  much  was  there,  even  in  her  lightest  and 
gayest  moments,  of  the  true  dignity  of  virtue  in  her  every  word 


THE    KING'S    GRATITUDE.  311 

and  gesture — to  approach  the  young  maid-of-honor  with  the 
suit  of  dishonor. 

To  accident,  therefore,  and  in  some  lesser  degree  to  her  own 
demeanor,  she  had  owed,  thus  far  her  escape  from  perse- 
cution. 

But  one  had  now  come  upon  the  scene — to  whom  to  outrage 
dignity,  as  to  ruin  virtue,  and  pollute  honor,  was  but  an  incen- 
tive, added  to  the  gratification  of  his  passions,  and — what  with 
him  stood  far  higher  than  his  passions — his  extraordinary  and 
indomitable  vanity. 

Master  of  all  graces,  all  arts,  all  accomplishments,  which 
conciliate  one  sex  and  ruin  the  other,  animated  by  no  solitary 
spark  of  honor,  courage,  manhood,  or  integrity,  though  so 
skilled  in  polite  and  politic  dissimulation  as  to  make  all  the 
world  believe  him  the  very  soul  of  honor,  chivalry,  and  cour- 
teous courage,  De  Grammont  had  resolved  to  compass  her  de- 
struction. 

And  what  he  had  resolved  in  that  sort  heretofore,  had  almost 
inevitably  come  to  pass. 

His  own  powers  of  seduction,  should  they  prove  for  once 
insufficient,  were  now  aided  to  the  utmost  by  no  less  an  auxi- 
liary than  Charles  himself ;  who  lately  being  deeply  smitten 
with  the  charms  of  a  young  French  coquette — to  use  no 
harsher  term — a  cousin,  it  was  given  out,  of  the  consummate 
count  himself,  had  bargained — shameful  contract,  but  most 
characteristic  of  those  shameful  days — for  the  facile  French- 
man's favor  with  his  kinswoman  by  engaging  to  throw  into 
his  arms  the  beautiful  Bellarmyne. 

All  this,  of  course,  was  a  secret  beyond  the  reach  of  Rosa- 
mond; yet  she  had  already  perceived  much  and  divined  more 
of  the  iniquities  which  were  plotting  against  her. 

The  odious  compliments,  the  resolutely  pertinacious  atten- 


312  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

tions,  so  marked  as  to  banish  all  other  courtiers  from  her  side ; 
his  insolently  graceful  importunities — to  be  repulsed  by  no 
scorn,  no  coldness,  no  denials ;  for  these  he  treated  either  as 
girlish  caprices,  or  as  English  pruderies — had  given  way  of  late 
to  an  assumption  of  radiant  triumph  in  her  presence ;  to  an 
affectation  of  being  perfectly  in  her  good  graces ;  to  a  boastful 
and  self-sufficient  complacency ;  as  if  he  were,  indeed,  the  ad- 
mitted and  successful  lover — the  gorgeous  Jupiter  of  a  submis- 
sive Semele. 

She  heard,  too,  from  the  maids-of-honor,  who  rallied  and 
complimented  her  on  her  victory — as  if  to  be  the  fallen  victim 
of  that  Hyperion's  passions  were  a  triumph — that  he  proclaim- 
ed, almost  aloud,  by  the  insinuation  of  adroit  disclaimers  and 
modest  inuendoes,  that  to  him  at  least  the  severe  Bellarmyne 
had  lowered  her  arms  ineffectual. 

By  bribery  of  her  maids  learning  what  would  be  her  dress 
at  each  court  festival,  he  appeared  always  wearing  her  colors ; 
so  that  to  every  one  not  in  his  secret,  it  must  appear  a  matter 
of  concert  between  them. 

By  connivance  of  the  king — who  played  his  most  unroyal 
game  with  all  the  zeal  of  an  interested  ally;  and  with  an 
adroitness  which  proved  that,  if  he  made  a  less  than  indifferent 
monarch,  he  would  have  made  an  admirable  Sir  Pandarus — in 
every  masque,  quadrille,  riding-party,  hunting  match,  or  other 
court  diversion,  in  which  it  was  the  custom  of  the  day  that  the 
company  should  be  paired,  the  famous  chevalier  had  as  his 
partner  the  unwilling  and  unhappy  Rosamond,  whom  the  rules 
of  court  etiquette,  stringent  as  those  of  court  morality  were  lax, 
prohibited  from  refusing  this  detested  companion. 

Thus  all  the  world  of  Whitehall,  from  Charles  himself  to  the 
least  of  his  courtiers,  either  by  connivance  or  from  being  them- 
selves deceived,  received  it  as  an  acknowledged  fact  that  the 


the  king's  gratitude.  313 

Beau  Grammont  either  stood  already,  or  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
standing,  as  he  would  with  the  Belle  Bellarmyne. 

And  she,  while  she  felt  this,  and  perceived  no  way  of  avoid- 
ing it,  or  of  disentangling  herself  from  the  nets  sensibly  spread- 
ing their  meshes  around  her,  trembled,  and  wept  and  prayed, 
and  feared  even  herself  for  herself  should  this  miserable  deceit 
continue,  fatal  as  the  enchantment  of  some  evil  genius. 

Perhaps  had  things  thus  continued  .had  no  overt  violence 
been  attempted,  no  outrage  offered,  had  she  been  left  to  the 
influence  of  that  evil  society  in  which  all  the  angels  around  her 
were  fallen  angels,  rejoicing  and  luxuriating  in  their  fall — left 
to  the  imputation  of  being  herself  a  victim  of  the  same  dark 
sin — left  to  doubt  and  distrust  herself,  and  to  despair  of  being 
virtuous  alone  in  the  midst  of  that  carnival  of  vice — she  had 
fallen. 

But,  for  this  time,  it  was  not  so  ordered ;  and,  as  it  is  often 
the  case  when  the  darkness  of  human  calamity  is  deepest,  that 
the  dawn  of  happiness  is  nearest,  so  now  events — of  which  she 
had  not  the  smallest  suspicion,  over  which  she  had  not  the 
least  control — were  in  progress,  which  effected  changes  as  un- 
expected as  important  both  in  her  present  and  future  con- 
dition. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  beautiful  autumnal  day;  the  sun  had 
sunk,  as  he  rarely  does  in  summer-time  in  that  humid  climate 
of  England,  unclouded  over  the  soft  Richmond  hills  ;  and  a 
tender,  dusky  twilight,  mellowed  only  by  the  young  light  of  a 
crescent  moon,  was  outspread  over  the  city  and  its  suburbs. 

On  this  evening  there  was  no  court  ceremonial ;  and  dis- 
pensed from  attendance  on  her  royal  mistress,  and  yet  more 
odious  attendance  in  the  court  circle,  Rosamond  Bellarmyne 
had  just  wept  herself  and  her  sorrows  into  temporary  forgetful- 
ness,  when  an  affair  fell  out  between  Barns  Elms  and  Batter- 


314  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

sea,  which  seeming  to  have  no  connexion  with   her   or  her 
affairs,  yet  influenced  the  whole  way  of  her  after  life. 

The  country  in  that  direction  was,  in  the  days  of  which  I 
write,  although  now  so  covered  with  streets  and  squares  of  thickly 
settled  parishes  as  to  be  indistinguishable  from  the  metro- 
polis itself,  truly  the  country  ;  a  suburban  district,  it  is  true,  but 
in  all  its  aspects  rural ;  green  fields  and  green  groves,  and  a 
maze  of  green  winding  lanes,  with  here  and  there  a  country 
villa,  here  and  there  a  country  tavern  and  wine-garden — fre- 
quented for  the  most  part  by  the  dissolute  and  wanton  of  both 
sexes,  the  scum  of  the  neighboring  metropolis,  though  visited 
occasionally  by  the  petits  maitres  and  petites  mattresses  of  the 
court — often  in  disguise,  and  always  on  errands  no  less  secret 
and  illicit  than  those  of  the  ordinary  inmates. 

It  was,  in  short,  a  district  presenting  all  the  worst  features — 
beauty  excepted — of  both  city  and  country ;  in  addition  to 
which  its  character  was  not  greatly  improved  by  being  the 
favorite  resort  of  seafaring  men  on  a  frolic,  and  of  the  crews — 
then,  as  now,  a  most  unruly  set — of  the  river  craft  and 
barges. 

In  the  centre  of  this  district,  not  far  from  the  river  bank,  to 
which  extended  its  overgrown  gardens  and  shrubberies,  too 
luxuriant  from  neglect,  there  stood  a  pleasant  Italian  edifice ; 
once  the  suburban  residence  of  a  foreign  ambassador  near  the 
court  of  the  first,  king  James,  but  for  some  time  past  fallen 
into  disuse  and  disrepair. 

Within  the  few  weeks  preceding  the  date  of  my  narrative, 
the  minds  of  the  country  quidnuncs  of  the  vicinity  had  been 
exercised  by  the  repairs  and  decoration  of  the  villa ;  the  bring- 
ing thither  in  many  wains  overland,  in  many  barges  by  river, 
much  sumptuous  furniture,  mirrors  and  tapestries,  carpets  and 


the  king's  gratitude.  315 

couches,  cabinets  of  marquetry  and  tables  of  rare  carving,  suita- 
ble only  for  the  abodes  of  the  great  and  noble. 

On  the  morning  of  that  beautiful  autumnal  day  the  exercised 
minds  had  been  strained  to  their  utmost  tension  by  the  arrival 
— in  a  grand  caleche,  drawn  by  superb  Flanders  mares,  and 
escorted  by  a  train  of  servants  of  both  sexes — of  a  very  young, 
and  very  lovely,  though  dark-complexioned,  foreign  lady,  with- 
out any  visible  protector  and  companion.  And  the  excitement 
was  relieved  only  by  the  announcement  made  by  an  English 
postillion — all  the  other  servants  being  French — that  the  lady 
was  Mademoiselle  de  la  Garde,  of  almost  royal  blood  in  France  ; 
and  that  the  Italian  House,  as  it  was  called,  had  been  purchas- 
ed for  her  residence  by  her  kinsman,  the  celebrated  Chevalier 
de  Grammont. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  country  hostelries  mentioned  above  that 
this  announcement  was  made  ;  a  pleasant  rustic-looking  place 
enough,  at  about  half  a  mile's  distance  from  the  villa,  and 
nearly  twice  as  far  from  the  main  London  road ;  lying  on  a 
lonely  lane,  secluded  by  thick,  bowery  hedges,  and  rendered 
almost  dark  at  noon  by  the  overhanging  branches  of  the  huge 
elms.  This  inn  had  a  bowling-green,  a  maze,  and  a  large 
garden  in  the  rear,  with  pleasant  apartments,  both  for  day  and 
night,  opening  upon  them,  for  the  use  of  visitors  of  the  better 
class ;  while  in  front  were  a  tap-room,  an  ordinary  w7ith  shovel- 
boards,  and  a  skittle-ground,  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
neighbors  and  the  city  roisterers,  who  mightily  affected  the 
Koyal  Oak — on  Sundays  more  especially. 

At  the  time  when  this  announcement  was  made  a  young 
gentleman  of  good  mien  was  present,  having  entered  the  house 
casually  as  a  stranger,  dismounting  from  a  good  horse,  and 
announcing  his  intention  of  tarrying  there  a  day  or  two,  hav- 
ing some  business  with  a  sea-captain  of  Battersea. 


316  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

He  was  a  man  of  some  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years,  finely 
and  powerfully  formed,  with  a  very  deep  chest,  and  muscular 
limbs.  His  present  complexion  was  dark  and  sunburned; 
though  the  color  of  his  chestnut  hair  and  steel-grey  eyes,  as 
well  as  the  fairness  of  his  forehead — where  it  had  been  protect- 
ed by  his  hat — showed  that  the  blackness  was  the  effect  of 
exposure  to  the  weather,  not  the  work  of  nature.  His  car- 
riage and  air,  no  less  than  a  slight  scar  as  of  a  sabre-cut  omhis 
forehead,  indicated  that  he  had  seen  service.  His  garb — rich, 
though  of  grave  colors,  and  of  foreign  fashion — was  half  mili- 
tary, and  worn  with  a  martial  air ;  and  he  bore  on  his  breast 
a  small  foreign  order.  His  name,  as  he  gave  it  to  the  curious 
barmaid,  proved,  if  it  were  a  true  one,  the  rank  and  the  station 
of  the  bearer — Captain  Bellarmyne,  from  the  Low  Countries. 

This  gentleman  appeared,  indeed,  to  be  something  moved,  if 
not  surprised,  by  what  he  heard ;  but  he  said  nothing,  asked 
no  questions,  dined  privately  at  noon  in  one  of  the  garden- 
chambers,  and  after  dinner  took  his  cool  tankard  in  an  arbor 
looking  upon  the  cool,  winding  lane. 

"While  he  was  sitting  there  a  superb  cavalier  came  powder- 
ing along  the  lane,  as  hard  as  a  splendid  English  hunter 
could  carry  him,  splendidly  dressed  in  a  grand  peruke,  a  velvet 
coat,  and  high  riding-boots  :  a  man  of  great  personal  beauty 
and  grace ;  both  evidently  made  the  most  of,  and  set  off  to  the 
utmost. 

"  In  truth  it  is  himself!"  muttered  the  young  man.  "It  is 
De  Grammont.     Whom  shall  we  see  next  ?" 

And  therewith  he  raised  himself  erect,  so  that  he  came  into 
full  view  of  the  passer-by ;  and  lifting  his  plumed  hat  bowed 
courteously,  but  coldly. 

The  chevalier  looked  puzzled — as  if  he  recognised  the  face 
without  recognising  the  owner  of  it ;  looked  annoyed  at  being 


the  king's  gratitude.  31 7 

recognised  ;  half  checked  his  horse — as  if  to  stop  and  speak  ; 
then  changing  his  mind,  bowed  slightly  and  galloped  forward. 

"  He  does  not  recollect  rne,"  said  Captain  Bellarmyne ; 
"  that  is  well,  too.     And,  now — whom  shall  we  see  next  V 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day  before  the  captain 
saw  any  one ;  yet  it  was  evident  that  he  kept  himself  in  the 
way  to  see  what  was  to  be  seen. 

But  when  the  sun  had  set,  and  the  moon  was  almost  rising, 
two  gentlemen  rode  up  to  the  horse-trough  before  the  door, 
accompanied  by  a  single  groom ;  and  one  of  them  asked  how 
far  was  it  to  what  was  called  the  Italian  House. 

On  receiving  the  reply  they  both  dismounted ;  and  giving 
their  horses  to  their  attendant  desired  him  not  to  wait,  as  they 
would  walk  home  in  the  pleasant  moonlight  or  tarry  until 
morning. 

That  done,  they  called  for  a  stoup  of  claret;  and  stood 
chatting  while  they  drank  it  not  far  from  Captain  Bellarmyne, 
who  soon  saw  clear  enough  who  had  come  the  next. 

One  of  the  two — the  most  remarkable  in  all  respects — was 
middle-aged ;  something  above  the  middle  stature ;  dark-com- 
plexioned and  harsh-featured,  with  coarse,  black  hair,  partially 
redeemed  only  by  a  bright,  intelligent  smile ;  a  quick,  vivacious 
eye ;  and  an  air  of  innate  and  unconcealable  gentility,  if  not 
dignity,  which  shone  like  a  diamond  through  the  disguise — 
evident  to  Bellarmyne's  eyes,  at  least — which  he  wore. 

In  a  word,  it  was  the  king ;  and*  the  captain  knew  him  in 
his  disguise,  as  he  had  known  De  Grammont  in  his  splendor. 

At  a  glance  anyone  would  have  pronounced  him,  as  he  was, 
more  witty  than  wise ;  more  good-natured  than  good-princi- 
pled ;  fitter  to  be  a  gay  companion  than  a  true  friend,  whether 
to  himself  or  to  others ;  fitter  to  be  anything  than  a  king — and 
that  a  king  of  freemen. 


318  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

His  comrade  Captain  Bellarmyne  knew  likewise  ;  knew  for 
what  he  was,  the  most  worthless  of  men  living  then — perhaps, 
of  all  men — without  one  redeeming  trait  of  good  by  which  to 
palliate  the  infamy  in  which  he  steeped  his  really  transcendent 
talents — John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester,  the  constant  compa- 
nion of  the  monarch ;  one  of  whose  worst  faults  lay  in  the 
selection  of  his  intimates — for  friends  they  were  not. 

They  tarried  but  a  minute,  and  then  sauntered  down  the  lane 
towards  the  villa ;  unobservant,  but  not  unobserved  by  others 
than  the  young  soldier  of  the  Low  Countries. 

A  group  of  bystanders  were  collected,  who  had  been  playing 
at  skittles  when  the  gentlemen  rode  up  ;  and  one  of  these,  as 
they  spoke  to  the  groom  of  walking  home  in  the  pleasant 
moonlight,  nudged  his  next  neighbor  with  his  elbow,  and  he 
cast  a  meaning  glance  at  a  third. 

Bellarmyne  seeming  to  see  nothing,  saw  all  with  his  marking 
military  eye. 

One  of  these  was — that  common  character  in  the  dramas  of 
those  days — the  soldado ;  a  brawny  ruffian,  with  a  swashing 
exterior  and  a  coward's  heart  within,  in  a  stained  plush  doublet 
with  tarnished  lace,  a  broad  shoulder-belt  and  a  long  rapier 
balanced  by  a  great  dagger ;  the  second  was  another  genius  of 
the  same  order ;  but  of  a  yet  lower  class ;  the  third  and  most 
dangerous  of  the  party,  was  a  seafaring  man  ;  smuggler,  slaver, 
or  pirate — any,  or  perhaps  all — as  times  and  occasions  suited. 

"  Didst  hear  that,  Ruffling  Jem  V  asked  the  latter,  scarce  in  a 
whisper,  of  the  soldado,  as  they  strolled  back  to  their  inter- 
rupted game. 

"  Ay,  Bully  sailor.     What'sJ  make  of  it  ?" 

"  That  there'll  be  pickings  in  the  pleasant  moonlight,  if  we 
look  sharp,  this  evening." 


the  king's  gratitude.  319 

"  Mum's  the  word.  Sure  and  steady.  Three  to  two  wins 
the  game. " 

"But  not  so  surely  three  to  three,"  muttered  Bellarmyne, 
between  his  clinched  teeth ;  "  and  you  may  meet  that,  and  find 
it  odds  against  you." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

KING    CHARLES  II.    AND    THE    EMPEROR'S    YOUNG    SOLDIER. 

Some  hours  had  passed  since  the  occurrences  which  had 
attracted  Captain  Bellarmyne's  attention  at  the  Royal  Oak, 
and  it  was  already  past  ten  o'clock,  when  three  persons  came 
forth  from  the  marble  portico  of  the  Italian  villa,  two  of  them 
bareheaded,  and  one  attired  in  most  sumptuous  court  costume, 
with  a  huge  flowing  peruke,  impregnating  the  air  with  essences, 
and  giving  out  clouds  of  Marechal  powder  at  every  motion  of 
the  owner,  a  French  embroidered  coat  of  pompadour-colored 
velvet,  gold-clocked  silk  stockings,  and  diamond-hilted  sword, 
and  diamond  aiguillettes  and  buckles.  The  other  two  were 
plainly,  though  handsomely,  attired  in  the  usual  riding  costume 
of  gentlemen  of  that  day. 

It  was  one  of  these,  who  stood  covered,  receiving  the  profuse 
compliments  and  thanks  of  the  gorgeous  courtier. 

"  Since,  then,  your  majesty,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  some  words 
spoken  before  they  left  the  house,  "  is  so  well  satisfied  with 
your  reception,  and  with  the  fair  recipient  of  your  gracious 
favors,  nothing  remains  for  me  but  to  express  my  deep  sense 
of  regret  at  the  poor  entertainment  which  I  have  been  able  to 
offer  to  so  great  a  king ;  and  to  pray,  with  all  humility,  that 
your  highness  will  be  pleased  to  make  use  of  my  poor  house, 


320  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  all  that  it  contains,  at  all  times  and  in  all  manners,  as  if  it 
were  your  palace  of  Whitehall ;  which  is  not,  in  truth,  more 
entirely  your  own." 

"  A  truce  to  your  compliments,  chevalier,"  replied  the  king, 
laughing  :  "  your  courtesy,  like  the  splendor  of  your  collation, 
is  almost  beyond  the  power  of  our  gratitude  to  return.  We 
shall  hope  to  see  your  fair  cousin,  near  her  majesty,  at  the  next 
drawing-room.  Meanwhile  reckon  on  me,  chevalier,  as  your 
friend  in  all  things  wherein  I  may  serve  you." 

"  Your  majesty  will  remember — " 

"  The  Bellarmyne !  So  far  as  I  can  promise,  count,  you  shall 
be  as  happy — as  I  have  been — as  you  desire  to  be.  Can  I  say 
more  ?     I  give  her  to  you  with  all  my  heart." 

"His  majesty,"  interrupted  Rochester,  whose  caustic  wit 
never  spared  his  king  more  than  less  exalted  subjects,  "  hath 
ever  had  a  gracious  liberal  usage  to  give  away  what  he  hath 
not  to  give.  The  old  cavaliers  of  his  sainted  father  aver  that 
it  is  all  he  ever  hath  been  known  to  give." 

"  At  least,  he  hath  given  enough  to  you,  Wilmot,"  replied 
the  king,  who  was  stung  as  much  by  the  truth  as  the  pointed- 
ness  of  the  hit :  *  too  much,  it  might  be  thought,  the  license  to 
speak  so  to  your  kind  master,  as,  for  your  life  !  you  durst  not 
to  a  private  gentleman.  But,  enough  of  this  :  it  grows  late  ; 
and  there  were  some  customers  at  that  Royal  Oak  as  we  pass 
by,  who  looked  as  if  it  might  be  their  profession,  or  their  pas- 
time, to  cut — throats,  or  purses.  Rochester  may  fall  yet  on  a 
chance,  this  very  night,  to  prove  that  his  sword  is  not  more 
harmless  than  his  pen.  Not  a  step  further,  chevalier ;  we 
would  be  incognito;  and  your  splendor,  no  less  than  your 
courtesies,  would  betray  us.  Give  you  good  night,  my  lord 
count,  and  au  revoirP 

And  with  the  word,  waiting  no  further  response,  the  king 


THE    KINGS    GRATITUDE,  321 

took  his  way,  at  his  own  rapid  pace — with  which  few  men 
could  keep  up  without  inconvenience — through  the  wilderness 
of  the  neglected  grounds,  into  the  gloomy  windings  of  the 
lane,  now  almost  as  dark  as  a  closed  room,  so  feebly  did  the 
young  moon  and  the  winking  stars  penetrate  the  heavy  foliage 
which  overhung  it. 

The  loneliness  and  the  gloom  affected  even  the  rash  and 
careless  mind  of  Charles.  "  Odds  fish  ! "  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, "  a  flambeau,  and  two  or  three  stout  lacqueys  were  not  so 
much  amiss  to-night,  after  all."  And  then  he  added,  turning 
to  his  taciturn  companion,  whose  late  insolence,  with  his 
wonted  facility,  he  had  forgotten  — 

"  This  were  a  rare  time  and  place  for  your  friend  Bucking- 
ham's friend,  Colonel  Blood.  If  we  were  to  encounter  him 
now,  with  two  or  three  of  his  roaring  boys  to  back  him,  we 
should  soon  see  how  much  that  divinity  would  avail  us,  which 
Will  Shakspeare  says  '  doth  hedge  about  a  king.'  " 

"Think  not  of  it,  sir,"  replied  Wilmot,  whose  teeth  were 
half-chattering  in  his  head  already,  with  the  self-suggested 
thought  of  what  Charles  had  spoken.  "  Think  not  of  it,  sir ; 
no  one  knows  of  this  adventure  save  myself,  the  chevalier, 
and  Tom  Hardy,  the  groom,  whom  you  have  proved  trust- 
worthy." 

"  In  great  things,"  answered  the  king,  "  no  man  is  proved 
trustworthy  till  he  be  tried  in  great  things.  But  look  not  so 
down-hearted,  Wilmot ;  I  did  not  think,  I  only  jested  of  it. 
See,  here  are  the  lights  of  the  Royal  Oak;  too  loyal  a  sign, 
sure,  to  harbor  treason ;  and  within  a  mile  or  so  we  shall  be 
in  the  high  road,  where  you  will  find  company  enow  to  rouse 
your  spirits :  or  stay,  the  good  folk  are  a-foot  yet  here,  it 
seems ;  we  will  tarry,  and  take  a  cup  to  revive  them." 

As  the  two  gentlemen  came  into  sight,  or  rather  as  soon  as 
15 


322  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

the  sound  of  their  quick,  light  footsteps — so  unlike  the  hob- 
nailed tramp  of  the  customary  foot  travellers — was  heard,  it 
was  observed  that  the  three  ruffians  who  had  lingered  about 
the  tap,  gambling  and  affecting  to  drink,  though  eschewing 
deep  potations,  slunk  away  into  the  darkness,  and  hurried  off 
in  the  direction  of  Hyde  Park,  up  the  lane  by  which  their 
intended  prey  must  pass. 

At  the  same  moment  the  young  soldier,  who  had  been  con- 
stantly watching  them  from  his  station  in  the  arbor,  arose, 
and  entering  the  house,  went  to  his  apartment  quickly  and  in 
silence. 

No  one  was  left  except  the  landlord,  leaning  on  the  hatch  of 
his  door,  a  green-aproned  tapster,  and  two  or  three  hostler- 
boys,  lounging  about  the  horse-block  and  trough. 

A  cup  of  burnt  sherry,  which  they  first  called  for,  was 
speedily  supplied ;  but  when  Charles  himself,  who  perhaps 
felt  that  he  had  acted  rashly,  began  to  sound  Boniface  as  to 
the  possibility  of  hiring,  or  even  purchasing  saddle-horses,  he 
soon  found  that  he  might  as  well  have  asked  for  camels  ;  so 
making  Wilmot  pay  the  scot,  who  by  chance  possessed  a  few 
shillings — the  royal  pockets  being,  of  course,  empty,  he  walked 
away  with  slashing  strides,  laughing  gaily  at. his  own  ab- 
surdity in  thinking  to  hire  post-horses  at  a  wine-garden. 

Scarcely  had  they  departed,  following  unconsciously  in  the 
steps  of  the  ruffians  who  had  preceded,  and  were  now,  doubt- 
less, awaiting  them  in  ambush,  when  Captain  Bell  army  ne  passed 
the  landlord,  who  was  shutting  up  the  house ;  and  without 
answering  his  inquiry,  how  soon  he  should  return,  followed  the 
pair  at  such  a  distance  as  to  keep  barely  within  hearing  of 
their  footsteps. 

He  had  a  long,  dark  cloak  thrown  loosely  over  his  shoul- 
ders ;   and  besides  a  stout  horseman's  tuck  hanging  on  his 


the  king's  gratitude.  323 

thigh,  wore  a  brace  of  fine  pistols,  recently  loaded,  at  his 
belt. 

For  about  half  a  mile  he  followed  the  king  slowly  and  un- 
seen, yet  having  still  in  ear  his  firm,  rapid,  vigorous  footstep, 
until  at  length,  just  at  the  spot  where  he  anticipated  mischief, 
the  sound  suddenly  ceased. 

It  was  as  fit  a  spot  for  ill  deeds  as  ever  was  chosen  by  the 
clerks  of  St.  Nicholas.  The  lane  here  turned  at  right  angles, 
a  footpath  entering  it  on  the  right  by  a  turnstile  ;  it  was 
overhung  by  two  or  three  heavy-boughed  oaks,  making  it  twi- 
light even  at  noon ;  and  on  the  left  was  flanked  by  a  dark, 
thick-set  coppice,  divided  from  it  by  a  foul,  stagnant  ditch, 
deep  in  mire,  and  mantled  with  duck-weed  and  rank  aquatic 
verdure. 

The  only  gleam  of  light  which  entered  this  thieves'  corner, 
came  faintly  through  the  opening  of  the  footpath,  and  was 
reflected  a  little  more  brightly  from  the  water,  on  the  surface 
of  which  seemed  to  be  concentrated  all  the  feeble  glimmer  of 
the  starlit  skies. 

As  the  tread  of  the  king  ceased,  Bellarmyne  flung  away  his 
cloak,  and  rushing  forward,  heard  a  rough  voice  exclaim — 

"  Come  !  come  !  No  nonsense  !  Your  purses,  cavaliers — 
or  your  lives ;  and  you  may  think  yourself  in  luck  if  the  weight 
of  the  first  redeem  the  second." 

"  Odds  fish  ! "  cried  Charles,  "  mine  won't ;  for  there's  riot  a 
groat  in't,  I'll  be  sworn.  How  runs  yours,  Jack  Wilmot  ?  for, 
if  it's  not  the  fuller,  we  must  make  steel  redeem  our  lives 
instead  of  silver." 

And  he  drew  as  he  spoke,  and  put  himself  on  guard,  facing 
the  sailor  and  the  soldado  ;  who,  though  with  their  points 
advanced,  still  paused,  awaiting  the  courtier's  reply,  as  pre- 


324  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

ferring  a  sure  ransom  to  a  doubtful  conflict;  but  the  bolder 
ruffian  cried — 

"  But  silver  won't  do,  my  noble  roisterers  ;  we  must  get 
gold,  an'  you  are  to  go  skin  free." 

"Hold  your  hands!"  exclaimed  Wilmot,  losing  all  self-pos- 
session from  the  extremity  of  fear ;  "  this  is  treason — it  is  the 
King  !  " 

A  loud,  coarse  laugh  replied,  in  scorn,  "  The  king — a  likely 
king,  indeed ;  without  a  maravedi  in  his  purse  ! — down  with 
the  lying  beggars,  if  'twere  but  for  their  impudence.  Treason, 
quotha  !  and  not  a  groat  in  's  pocket !  Together,  boys — have 
at  them." 

And  the  clash  of  steel  followed  sharp  and  continuous.  All 
this  had  passed  so  rapidly,  and  the  minds  of  those  engaged 
were  so  intent  on  the  work  in  hand,  that  Bellarmyne's  ap- 
proach, swiftly  as  he  hurried  up,  was  unperceived  till  he  was 
close  beside  them. 

"  Stand  to  it,  cavaliers  ! "  he  cried  ;  "  aid  is  at  hand  !  We 
are  stronger  than  the  ruffians — pink  them  home  ! " 

At  his  shout  the  thieves  fell  back  a  little  ;  and  had  the  true 
men  stood  their  ground  stoutly,  would  have  fled  without  more 
ado.  But  Rochester,  though  he  had  fought  tolerably  well  for 
a  moment,  fear  lending  him  a  desperate  sort  of  courage,  when 
he  heard  a  step  and  shout  close  behind  him,  misunderstood 
their  import ;  and,  losing  all  heart,  threw  down  his  sword, 
leaped  the  foot-stile  with  singular  agility,  and  ran  away  as 
hard  as  he  could  across  the  fields  toward  London. 

Seeing  this  cowardly  desertion,  the  rogues  rallied ;  and  the 
sailor,  who  was  their  best  man,  facing  Bellarmyne,  the  other 
two  pressed  the  king  home.  Had  there  been  any  light,  the 
ruffian  could  not  have  kept  his  life  ten  seconds  against  the 
practised  weapon  of  the  Imperialist;  but,  as  it  was,  scarcely 


the  king's  gratitude.  325 

the  glimmer  of  the  points  could  be  discerned,  like  glow-worms 
in  the  gloom  ;  and  the  antagonists  struck,  thrust,  and  warded, 
by  feeling  the  contact  of  their  blades,  not  by  seeing  their 
direction. 

After  a  minute  or  two,  finding  that  the  men  were  resolute — 
that  in  the  dubious  darkness  he-  had  little  or  no  advantage 
over  his  immediate  antagonist — while  the  king's  hard  breath- 
ing, and  his  breaking  ground  once  or  twice,  told  him  that  he 
was  overmatched — the  young  soldier  changed  his  tactics. 
Still  keeping  up  his  guard  against  the  sailor,  he  quietly  drew 
a  pistol  with  his  left  hand,  cocked  it,  and  springing  back  with 
a  quick  bound  to  the  side  of  Charles,  who  had  been  pushed  a 
pace  or  two  behind  him,  discharged  his  weapon  within  a 
hand's  breadth  of  the  head  of  the  tallest  ruffian. 

It  was  just  in  time  ;  for  the  king's  guard  was  beaten  down 
by  the  blade  of  the  other,  and  the  soldado's  point  was  at  his 
throat.  The  broad  glare  of  the  sudden  discharge  startled  all 
who  wTere  engaged  save  one ;  and  he  never  started  more. 
The  fatal  ball  crashed  through  his  brain,  and  he  was  a  dead 
man  ere  his  heavy  body  plashed  into  the  noisome  ditch  behind 
him. 

"  Fire-arms  !  "  shouted  the  sailor.  "  Ware-hawk  !  Vamos  !  " 
and  he,  too,  leaped  the  turnstile,  and  disappeared  ;  while  his 
companion  took  to  his  heels  up  the  lane,  and  was  soon  out  of 
hearing. 

"  You  are  not  hurt,  sir  ? "  asked  the  young  soldier,  not 
desiring  to  penetrate  the- incognito  of  the  king,  as  he  returned 
the  pistol  to  his  girdle. 

"  Thanks  to  you,  no,  sir,"  answered  the  king,  warmly.  "  But 
for  you,  I  had  been  past  feeling  any  hurt.  Your  pistol  did 
good  service — it  saved  my  life." 

"  It  has  done  me  better  before,"  replied  Bellarmyne,  laugh- 


32G  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

ing ;  "  for  it  saved  my  own  at  Cracow,  when  a  big  Croatian 
bad  me  down,  witb  bis  knee  on  my  chest,  and  a  knife  a  span 
broad  at  my  weasand." 

"  That  was  good  service,  sir,  too,"  said  Charles,  gravely ; 
"  but,  perhaps,  not  better  than  this." 

"  Better  for  me,  I  only  said,"  answered  Bellarmyne,  gaily  ; 
"  but  come,  sir,  if  you  are  of  my  way  of  thinking,  we  were 
better  to  be  moving.  That  pistol-shot  will  bring  out  all  the 
bees  buzzing  from  their  hives  under  the  .ftoyal  Oak  ;  and, 
though  not  dangerous,  they  might  be  troublesome.  I  should 
have  used  my  pistols  when  I  first  came  up,  but  that  I  thought 
of  this  ;  and  I  should  not  have  needed  to  use  them  at  all,  had 
your  friend  shown  himself  a  man." 

"  You  are  prudent,  sir,  as  well  as  brave  ;  rare  qualities  in 
any  man.  We  were  better,  as  you  say,  to  be  moving.  Add 
to  the  favor  you  have  done  me  by  giving  me  my  friend's  sword ; 
yonder  it  lies  ;  it  might  tell  tales  of  him.  Thanks !  Now, 
which  way  lies  your  road,  sir?  Mine  takes  me  towards  the 
Mall.     Will  you  give  me  your  company  \  " 

"  Willingly,  sir.  Had  you  not  asked  I  should  have  offered 
it.  I  have  friends  in  the  city  with  whom  I  can  bestow  myself; 
although  I  had  intended  to  pass  the  night,  where,  perhaps,  you 
saw  me,  sir,  at  the  Royal  Oak." 

"  Saw  you  ?  No  !  When,  sir  ? "  asked  the  king,  quickly  ; 
and  then,  without  giving  him  time  to  reply,  he  added,  "  One 
word  more — do  you  know  me,  sir  ?" 

"  I  saw  you,  sir,  as  you  dismounted  at  the  Royal  Oak  this 
afternoon  with  your  companion,  and  judged  you  to  be  gentle- 
men of  the  court  on  a  frolic ;  but  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
either  of  your  acquaintance.  Fortunately,  I  overheard  some 
chance  words  of  those  ruffians,  by  which  I  learned  that  they 


the  king's  gratitude.  327 

intended  to  waylay  you,  and  was  so  enabled  to  do  you  this 
slight  service." 

"  Slight  service  ! "  answered  Charles,  with  a  light  laugh ;  "  I 
wonder  what  you  gentlemen  of  the  sword  think  good  service  ? 
But  come,  as  that  learned  thief  exclaimed,  as  he  made  his  exit, 
*  Vamos?  The  rogue  patroles,  I  suppose,  will  find  their  brother 
thief  dead  in  the  ditch  to-morrow,  and  raise  a  hue  and  cry  of 
murder — let  them.     We  can  keep  our  secret." 

And  walking  stoutly  and  rapidly  along,  they  soon  reached 
the  high-road ;  after  an  hour's  active  exertion  passed  Hyde 
Park  corner — a  field  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  town,  just 
coming  into  vogue  as  a  court-promenade  and  riding-course; 
and  entered  Piccadilly — a  wide  road,  lined  with  the  occasional 
mansions  and  gardens  of  the  nobility,  but  little  resembling  the 
continuous  and  fashionable  street  of  the  present  day. 

The  hour  was  so  late  that  all  the  lights  in  the  dwellings  and 
public  places  were  extinguished ;  and  the  watchmen  of  that 
time,  like  those  two  centuries  later,  preferred  dozing  in  their 
snug  sentry  boxes  to  perambulating  the  streets,  when  all 
sensible  and  well-disposed  people  are  sound  asleep  in  their 
beds. 

Before  the  guard-house,  however,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Mall,  there  was  a  brilliant  lamp  burning  and  a  sentinel  on  duty; 
here,  without  approaching  so  near  to  the  latter  as  to  give  him 
occasion  to  challenge  or  salute,  the  king  paused  where  the  full 
light  fell  on  his  strongly-marked,  swarthy  features. 

"  Now,  sir,  look  at  me  well :  peruse  my  lineaments  ;  and  see 
if  you  recognise  the  person  whose  life  you  have  saved  ?  Did 
you  ever  see  me  before  to-day  V 

Bellarmyne  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  replied — 

"  If  ever,  it  must  have  been  in  the  Low  Countries.     Perhaps 


328  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

at  Breda — were  you  ever  there  ?  I  trod  on  English  soil  but 
three  weeks  since,  for  the  first  time  these  thirteen  years." 

"  And  your  'name  ?"  asked  the  king,  perfectly  satisfied  that 
his  incognito  was  safe. 

"  Is  Armytage  Bellarmyne,  late  captain  of  the  Emperor's 
Life-Guard."  *       - 

"  A  kinsman  of  my  good  friend  Nicholas  Bellarmyne,  of  the 
city  ?  whom  men  call  the  English  Merchant." 

"  His  son.     Is  he  your  friend  !M 

"  A  very  old  one." 

"  And  your  name  ?"  asked  Bellarmyne. 

"  Is  my  secret.  We  shall  meet  again  ;  then  you  will  know 
it.     Good  night !" 

They  shook  hands,  bowed,  and  parted. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    CHEVALIER   DE    GRAMMONT  ;    THE    FRENCH    KING'S    EX- 
COURTIER. 

It  was  some  five  or  six  days  after  the  occurrences  near  the 
Italian  House,  a  space  during  which  Rosamond  had  been  more 
seriously  annoyed  than  ever  by  the  importunities  of  the  count, 
and  the  scarcely  equivocal  allusions  of  Charles  to  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  her  penchant  for  the  illustrious  Frenchman,  that 
a  gay  group  of  courtiers  had,  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning, 
accompanied  the  king  and  his  train  of  spaniels  into  St.  James's 
Park ;  where  he  amused  himself,  as  was  his  wont,  feeding  his 
tame  water-fowl  in  the  canal,  playing  with  his  dogs,  and  chat- 
ting in  his  easy  unkingly  manner,  which  rendered  him  so  popu- 


the  king's  gratitude.  329 

lar,  despite  all  his  ill-government,  with  such  promenaders  or 
chance-passengers  as  he  chanced  to  know  by  sight. 

Among  the  party,  who  accompanied  him  rather  as  equal 
associates  than  as  subjects,  were  De  Grammont,  Sir  George 
Etherege,  the  accomplished  Buckhurst*  afterwards  Duke  of 
Dorset,  and  wild  William  Crofts,  groom  of  the  stole ;  with  all 
of  whom,  making  no  distinction  of  rank,  he  gossipped  and 
jested  in  his  loose,  idle  way,  and  allowed  them  to  pass  their 
jokes  on  himself  in  return. 

In  the  course  of  their  wild  and  licentious  talk,  De  Grammont 
alluded  jestingly,  but  with  a  visibly  earnest  intention,  to  the 
want  of  progress  which  he  made  with  the  beautiful  Bellar- 
myne,  adding  pointedly,  "  if  your  majesty  were  half  as  energetic 
a  wooer  for  others  as  you  are  for  yourself,  and  came  as  briskly 
to  the  point,  she  would  not  remain  long  so  perdurably  en 
garde." 

The  king  laughed,  not  less,  perhaps,  at  the  effrontery  of  the 
count's  jeu  des  mots  on  his  own  kinswoman's  dishonor,  than  on 
the  coolness  with  which  he  seemed  to  rely  on  his  good  offices 
in  a  matter  so  dishonest ;  and  replied — "  Faith  !  when  I  do 
such  things  by  proxy,  I  use  my  good  friend  Chiffinch  ;  you  had 
better  apply  to  him,  count,  and  if  he  do  not  bring  the  affair  to 
a  prosperous  event,  by  my  honor,  I  see  nothing  for  it  but  you 
must  carry  her  off  vi  et  armis,  as  Rochester  would  have  done 
fair  Mistress  Mallet.  I  dare  say,  you  have  many  another  petite 
maison  besides  the  Italian  House." 

"  But  I  have  heard  say,  your  majesty  was  very  angry  with 
Rochester  ;  I  could  not  survive  my  king's  anger." 

"  Rochester  failed,  chevalier,  and  the  lady  was  neither  paci- 
fied nor  placable.  I  never  heard  the  name  of  De  Grammont 
coupled  with  the  word  failure." 

"  Not  at  Basset,  sire,  nor  Lansquenet,  nor  yet  at  Ombre,"  re- 
15*     • 


330  PERSONS.    AND    PICTURES. 

plied  Etherege,  with  a  mock  reverence  to  De  Grammont ;  "  but 
fame  is  more  mendacious  even  than  her  own  ill-report  goes,  if 
fortune  be  as  kind  to  the  chevalier  in  the  affairs  of  Venus,  as 
she  has  shown  herself  in  those  of  Mars  and  Plutus.  Crofts, 
here,  has  told  us  some  funny  tales  about  his  devotion  to  Made- 
moiselle St.  Germain." 

u  Odds  fish  1"  exclaimed  the  king,  breaking  off  abruptly,  and 
looking  earnestly  towards  the  Bird-cage  Walk,  from  which  direc- 
tion two  persons  were  advancing — one  an  old  gentleman  of 
seventy  years  of  age  or  upwards,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  plain  brown 
velvet,  with  a  gold  chain  about  his  neck,  and  a  gold-headed 
crutch-cane  in  his  hand,  in  lieu  of  the  sword  at  his  side,  without 
which  gentlemen  then  rarely  went  abroad ;  the  other  a  youth 
of  a  military  deportment,  in  half  military  attire,  whom  Charles, 
with  his  usual  quickness,  recognised  at  once  as  his  timely  assis- 
tant in  the  lane  near  Chelsea — "  Odds  fish !  whom  have  we 
here?  That  should  be  our  worthy  friend  of  the  city,  good 
Master  Nicholas  Bellarmyne ;  but  who  is  the  stout  gallant  on 
whose  arm  he  leans  ? — a  likely  looking  lad,  with  an  arm  and 
\eg  that  might  have  won  favor  in  bluff  King  Harry's  sight,  who 
loved,  they  say,  to  look  upon  the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  man ! 
Who  is  he  ?  Do  none  of  you  know,  gentlemen  ?  Then,  faith  ! 
I  must  e'en  ask  myself." 

Then  as  the  old  merchant  and  his  son  were  passing  by,  as 
was  the  etiquette,  at  a  respectful  distance,  merely  uncovering 
as  they  went  their  way,  he  called  after  them  in  his  ordinary 
blunt  manner,  "  Why,  how  now,  Master  Nicholas  Bellarmyne, 
are  we  out  of  favor  with  our  good  friends  in  the  city,  that  one 
of  their  best  men  gives  us  the  go-by  so  cavalierly  ?" 

Thus  summoned,  the  persons  who  had  provoked  the  royal 
attention  drew  near,  the  father  keeping  his  head  erect,  though 
uncovered,  and  looking  his  majesty  full  in  the  face,  with  an  eye 


the  king's  gratitude.  331 

as  clear  and  calm  as  his  own  ;  but  his  son  drooping  his  brow 
a  little,  and  having  his  eyes  downcast,  as  if  he  were  either  bash- 
ful or  reluctant,  and  falling  back  a  pace  or  two  as  they  ap- 
proached the  presence. 

"Not  so,  your  majesty,"  replied  the  merchant,  seeing  that 
the  king  waited  a  reply,  "  you  are,  as  ever,  our  very  good  lord 
and  gracious  master,  and  we  desire  but  to  know  wherein  we 
may  pleasure  your  grace,  in  order  to  do  so.  But,  seeing  that 
you  were  private,  we  did  not  dare  intrude  until  commanded." 

"  One  would  think,  Master  Bellarmyne,"  replied  the  king, 
laughing,  "  that  you  had  attained  the  years  to  know  that  there 
is  no  intrusion,  nowadays,  possible  by  men  with  money-bags 
like  yours,  if  fame  overrate  them  not,  especially  on  kings  and 
courtiers,  who,  however  much  of  gold  they  may  bear  on  their 
backs,  carry  none,  on  a  point  of  honor,  in  their  purses.  But 
who  is  this  gentleman  you  have  with  you  ?  I  have  not,  I  think, 
seen  his  face  at  court,  yet  I  remember  something  of  the  trick  of 
it.  Who  is  he,  that  I  know  him,  but  cannot  call  a  name  to 
him  ?" 

"  My  son,  your  majesty.  Armytage  Bellarmyne ;  he  has  re- 
turned but  of  late  from  Germany,  where,  and  in  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, he  has  had  the  honor  to  serve  the  king  and  emperor  in 
twelve  campaigns." 

"  Twelve  campaigns !"  replied  the  king.  "  He  must  have  be- 
gun betimes.  And  did  he  win  that  medal  there,  which  he 
wears  on  his  breast  ?  And  wherefore  hath  he  not  been  pre- 
sented to  us,  his  ^lawful  native  sovereign,  for  whom,  I  presume, 
his  sword  will  be  drawn  hereafter  ?" 

u  Whenever  need  shall  be,  your  grace.  But  you  have  in- 
dulged us  so  long  with  the  blessings  of  peace  that  England  had 
no  need  of  it ;  and  youth  is  rash,  as  your  majesty  knows,  and 
perilous,  and  will  have  its  vent  in  mischief  somewhere.    Touch- 


332  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

ing  his  presentment,  he  tarried  only  for  the  arrival  of  my  lord 
of  Craven,  to  whom  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  known 
abroad,  and  who  was  gracious  to  promise  that  he  would  stand 
his  sponsor  to  your  majesty." 

"  Ha !  Craven  !"  said  the  king  ;  "  gallant  and  loyal  Craven ! 
Well,  we  will  accept  Craven  absent,  as  his  sponsor,  and  elect 
you,  sir,  present,  as  his  proxy.  Present  him  to  us.  We  would 
know  where  we  have  seen  his  face  before." 

Armytage,  on  hearing  these  words,  exceeding  gracious  as 
they  were,  advanced  uncovered  ;  and,  as  his  father  named  him, 
knelt  gracefully  on  one  knee,  and  kissed  the  hand  which  was 
extended  to  him  with  a  smile,  thinking,  as  he  did  so,  with  how 
much  less  ceremony  he  had  grasped  it  only  a  few  nights  pre- 
viously. Then,  rising  to  his  feet,  he  stood,  respectfully,  but 
perfectly  unembarrassed,  before  Charles,  who,  with  a  twinkling 
eye  and  suppressed  smile,  pursued  the  subject,  determined  evi- 
dently to  try  his  new  ally's  spirit  and  discretion. 

"  How  is  it,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  your  face  is  so  familiar  .to 
me  ?  It  is  not  your  likeness  to  your  father,  for  you  are  not  like 
him.     I  have  seen  yourself  before — where  have  we  met?" 

"  So  please  your  majesty,"  replied  Armytage,  himself  unable 
to  refrain  from  smiling,  "  once,  many  years  since,  I  had  the 
honor  to  see  you  ride  through  the  streets  of  Breda  ;  and,  I  be- 
lieve, your  majesty's  eye  might  have  fallen  on  my  features.  But 
I  had  thought  it  too  small  a  matter  to  rest  in  your  memory." 

"  More  things  rest  in  my  memory,"  said  the  king,  signifi- 
cantly, "  than  men  think  for.  It  must  have  been  in  Breda, 
then.  Well,  sir,  you  see  I  have  not  forgotten ;  and  you  shall 
see  I  will  not  forget  you.  I  hear  you  have  served,  sir — where 
and  under  whom  ?  And  where  did  you  win  that  medal  which 
you  wear  ?     I  see  it  is  imperial." 

"  I  have  served,  sire,"  replied  the  young  man,  modestly,  "  both 


the  king's  gratitude.  333 

in  the  Low  Countries  and  in  Transylvania ;  besides  one  cam- 
paign in  Denmark.  I  have  fought  under  Turenne  and  Monte- 
cuculi,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  at  the  forcing  of  the 
Prince  of  Conde's  lines  at  Arras,  at  the  defeat  of  Ragotsky's 
Transylvanians  before  Cracow,  and  at  the  relief  of  Copenhagen. 
It  was  before  Cracow,  where  I  served  as  the  general's  aide-de- 
camp, that  I  had  the  honor  to  receive  this  decoration." 

"  You  have,  indeed,  been  fortunate,  sir,"  answered  the  king, 
graciously.  "  Whether  to  have  fought  under  such  heroes  as 
Montecuculi,  or  against  such  heroes  as  Conde  and  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  were  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  ambitious  of  glory. 
And  what  propose  you  to  do  now,  sir  ?" 

"  To  lay  my  sword  at  your  majesty's  feet,  if  it  can  serve  you. 
I  should  have  done  so  earlier,  could  I  have  quitted  the  empe- 
ror's service  with  honor,  before  peace  was  declared.  If  not,  and 
these  rumors  of  war  between  the  empire  and  the  Turks  prove 
true,  I  may  have  your  license,  sire,  to  take  a  turn  against  the 
Ottomans,  under  my  old  commander." 

"  No,  no,  sir.  For  the  present,  you  have  had  fighting  enough, 
methinks,  without  getting  your  ears  cut  off  by  some  janizary, 
and  sent  up  in  salt  to  the  Sublime  Porte.  We  shall  try  to  find 
something  for  you  to  do  here  in  England.  Meantime,  her 
majesty  holds  court  to-morrow  night ;  we  shall  command  your 
attendance,  desiring  to  know  how  our  English  ladies  compare 
with  the  fair  Austrians,  and  the  Polish  beauties,  of  whom  we 
have  heard  wonders." 

And  a  slight  bow  indicating  that  the  interview  was  finished, 
Armytage  and  his  father  retired  with  due  reverence,  the  latter 
marvelling  much  to  what  they  could  owe  so  unusual  a  reception 
from  the  king. 

As  they  withdrew,  Charles  sauntered  away  towards  the  palace 
playing  with  his  dogs ;  and,  reverting  to  the  matter  uppermost 


334  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

in  his  mind,  asked  De  Grammont  carelessly,  "  Well,  chevalier, 
what  think  you  of  our  new-found  subject  ?" 

"  A  bold  youth  !"  answered  De  Grammont,  shortly — for  he 
had  observed  the  community  of  names  between  the  young  im- 
perialist and  his  charmer,  and  foreboded  no  good  from  his 
arrival.  Moreover,  he  foresaw  a  rival  favorite  near  the  throne, 
and  his  vanity  could  brook  nil  simile  aut  secundum. 

"  Odds  fish  !"  cried  the  .  king  hastily,  "  a  brave  one,  rather, 
and  a  modest,  and  a  discreet !  I  should  like  to  see  one  of  you, 
gentlemen,  who — "  he  checked  himself  abruptly,  and  added 
with  a  low  bow  to  De  Grammont,  "  but  I  forget  that  I  speak 
to  the  comrade  and  sharer  of  the  great  Conde's  glory  at  Sens, 
Norlinguen,  and  Fribourg,  and  of  the  no  less  great  Turenne's, 
at  the  forcing  of  those  same  lines  at  Arras." 

The  chevalier  could  but  bow  low  to  the  gracefully  turned 
compliment  of  the  king,  though  he  half  suspected  some  latent 
meaning  in  the  king's  reticence.  He  remained,  however, 
silent,  and  something  discomposed  during  the  remainder  of  the 
promenade. 

The  king  was  also,  contrary  to  his  wont,  absorbed  in  thought, 
grave,  and  taciturn. 

"  What's  a-foot  now,  Buckhurst  ?"  whispered  Etherege  to  his 
friend,  as  they  lagged  a  step  or  two  behind  the  party.  "  And 
who's  the  new  Bellarmyne  ?" 

"  Some  one,"  replied  Buckhurst,  profanely,  "  whom  either  the 
good  Lord  or  the  foul  fiend  has  sent  to  spoil  the  Frenchman's 
game  with  the  other  Bellarmyne." 

"  The  good  Lord,  then,"  replied  Etherege,  laughing,  "  the 
good  Lord,  for  a  rouleau !  The  foul  fiend  would  have  helped 
the  Frenchman.  I  don't  like  this  selling  or  swapping  of  Eng- 
lish ladies'  honors — not  being  over  nice  myself,  or  squeamish." 

"  Nor  I — an  English  king  being  salesman,"  said  Buckhurst. 


the  king's  gratitude.  335 

Yet  these  were  two  of  tlie  wildest  and  most  licentious  gallants 
of  that  unscrupulous  time ;  but  there  are  things  so  foul  as  must 
needs  make  the  most  corrupt  gorge  rise  against  them,  if  the 
heart  thrill  to  any  latent  sense  of  honor. 

The  queen's  court,  on  the  following  night,  was  more  superb 
than  usual ;  more  decked  with  flowers  of  female  loveliness,  than 
usual,  it  could  not  be ;  for  probably  no  such  assemblage  of 
beauty  and  grace — alas !  that  modesty  and  virtue  may  not  be 
added — was  ever  brought  together. 

There  was  the  superb  Barbara  of  Castlemaine,  radiant  in 
almost  incomparable  beauty,  but  dressed,  or  undressed  rather, 
to  a  degree  calculated  to  excite  disgust,  rather  than  any  warmer 
feeling,  and  brazen  with  more  than  cynical  effrontery  ;  yet  the 
poor,  broken-spirited  queen  smiled  on  her,  and  exchanged  com- 
pliments with  her,  in  the  face  of  all  the  sneering  court. 

There  was  Frances  Stuart,  for  whose  love  it  was  rumored  that 
Charles  would  fain  have  been  divorced  from  Catharine  of  Bra- 
ganza,  "  the  greatest  beauty,"  as  quaint  old  Pepys  says,  "  I  did 
ever  see  in  all  my  life,  with  her  cocked-hat  and  red  plume,  with 
her  sweet  little  Eoman  nose,  and  excellent  taille? 

There  was  the  fair  and  languid  Middleton,  with  her  soft  insi- 
pid smile  and  love-lorn  look  askance.  There  was  the  beauteous 
and  virtuous  Miss  Hamilton,  with  her  commanding  form,  and 
swan-like  neck,  her  open,  smooth,  white  forehead,  and  her 
round  arms,  the  loveliest  in  the  world.  There  was  little  Miss 
Jennings,  with  her  complexion  the  fairest  and  brightest  that 
was  ever  seen ;  her  abundant  flaxen  hair,  her  exquisite  mouth, 
with  that  nez  retrousse,  and  that  animated  arch  expression,  that 
redeemed  her  from  the  charge  of  insipidity — reproach  of  blonde 
beauties ;  Miss  Bagot,  with  her  regular,  calm  features,  her 
"  brown  complexion,  of  that  sort  so  unusual  in  England,  and  the 
continual  blush  which  she  had  ever  on  her  cheek,  without  having 


336  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

anything  to  blush  for  ;"*  Miss  Temple,  with  her  fine  and  lan- 
guishing eyes,  wreathed  smile,  and  lively  air ;  and,  though  the 
last,  the  most  lovely,  the  best,  the  purest  of  them  all,  innocent 
Eosamond  Bellarmyne,  with  her  clear  blue  eyes  revealing  every 
sentiment  of  her  frank  and  candid  soul,  her  cheek  pale  from 
annoyance  and  agitation,  yet  sweeter  from  the  purity  of  its  very 
pallor,  and  her  rich  brown  hair  flowing,  as  it  were,  in  mingled 
masses  of  chestnut  silk  and  gold,  over  her  marble  shoulders. 

That  night  the  king  did  not  tease  her,  nor  did  his  face  once 
wear  that  malicious  smile,  or  his  lip  once  syllable  the  Count  De 
Grammont's  name.  On  the  contrary,  his  countenance  was 
grave,  and  his  voice  calm  and  kind,  when  he  told  her  that  he 
had  found  her  a  new  cousin,  whom  he  would  present  to  her 
that  evening.  And  when .  she  started,  and  blushed  crimson, 
and  looked  fluttered  and  frightened,  he  answered  her  look  by  a 
reassuring  smile,  and  said,  "A  very  honorable  one,  Mistress 
Eosamond." 

No  man  in  England  knew  the  family  histories  of  all  his  sub- 
jects better  than  Charles,  long  as  he  had  resided  in  a  foreign 
land ;  nor  was  the  name  of  Bellarmyne  so  common  of  occur- 
rence but  that  so  soon  as  he  knew  the  name  of  the  emperor's 
young  soldier,  he  knew  also  his  relationship  to  the  queen's  maid- 
of-honor.  To  day  he  had  thought — not  a  common  thing  for 
Charles  to  do — he  had  thought  of  all  that  those  Bellarmynes, 
of  old  race,  had  done  and  suffered  for  his  unlucky  house,  and, 
as  he  thought,  his  conscience  smote  him — for  he  had  a  con- 
science, at  times,  when  anything  pierced  deep  enough  to  wake 
it  into  life — and  he  paused  and  repented. 

He  did  present  Captain  Bellarmyne  to  Eosamond,  after  he 
had  presented  him,  with  much  distinction,  to  the  queen,  and 

*  Memoirs  of  De  Grammont,  by  Count  Anthony  Hamilton. 


the  king's  gratitude.  .  33*7 

took  care  that  he  should  be  her  partner ;  which  then  implied 
association  not  for  a  single  dance,  but  for  the  whole  ball,  and 
the  banquets  that  followed  it ;  and  once  or  twice  during  the 
evening,  as  he  went  round  among  his  guests,  joking  and  drink- 
ing with  them  like  anything  rather  than  a  king,  he  found  time 
to  say  a  passing  word  or  two  good-naturedly,  and  winked  most 
unroyally  at  Armytage,  and  clinked  his  glass  of  champagne 
with  Kosamond,  as  he  drank  to  her  "  with  his  eyes." 

Grammont  was  furious.  Finding  himself  balked  of  Rosa- 
mond, he  had  attached  himself  to  Miss  Hamilton,  to  whom  he 
was  always  very  attentive,  and  whom  he  afterwards  married — 
being  brought  back  from  Calais  for  that  purpose  by  dislike  to 
her  brother's  pistols — but  he  was  abstracted  and  rude,  and  tore 
her  enamelled  fan  to  pieces  in  his  fretful  mood;  and  when  Miss 
Jennings  quizzed  him  on  his  discomposure,  he  answered  her  so 
sneeringly  and  shortly,  that  the  saucy  gipsy  turned  her  back  full 
in  his  face,  and  did  not  speak  to  him  again  for  a  month. 

Once  he  attacked  the  king,  bantering,  but  evidently  sore. 

"  Odds  fish  !  chevalier,"  Charles  answered  testily,  "  win  her 
yourself,  and  wear  her.  If  you  can't  win  her  yourself,  send 
Chiffinch,  or  your  man  Termes,  who  lost  your  fine  coat  in  the 
quicksand  at  Calais.  But  for  your  reputation's  sake,  chevalier, 
don't  lisp  to  them  at  Paris  what  dirty  work  you  asked  a  king- 
to  do  for  you  !" 

"  Or  did  for  a  king,"  said  Etherege,  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
chanced  to  stand  near  him. 

"  Sir  !"  cried  De  Grammont,  turning  on  him  furiously. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Etherege,  quietly.  "  I  call  you  so,  because  it 
is  the  English  for  chevalier" — and,  with  a  low  bow,  he  turned 
his  back,  and  walking  away,  asked  some  one  to  present  him  to 
Captain  Bellarmyne. 

So  incensed  was  De  Grammont,  now,  that  he  lost  all  com- 


338  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

mand  of  himself;  and  though  he  felt  it  was  impossible  to  quarrel 
in  the  very  banqueting  hall  of  the  palace,  he  still  could  not  refrain, 
when  the  ball  was  ended,  and  his  self-constituted  rival  was 
looking  for  his  hat  and  cloak  in  the  ante-chamber,  from  walk- 
ing  up  and  addressing  him,  in  a  manner  anywhere  haughty  and 
unbecoming,  but  surpassingly  so  in  a  royal  apartment. 

"  Captain  Bellarmyne,  I  believe  f" 

"  At  your  service,  Chevalier  de  Grammont." 

"  Will  you  permit  me,  then,  to  inquire  the  meaning  of  your 
attentions  to  Mistress  Rosamond  Bellarmyne  V 

"  Certainly,  count,  to  inquire  anything  you  please ;  and, 
being  myself  the  lady's  poor  cousin,  on  learning  your  superior 
pretensions,  I  shall  gladly  answer  you." 

a  Then,  sir,  I  have  another  question,"  De  Grammont  began 
fiercely ;  when  Bellarmyne  as  calmly  interrupted  him,  "  Which 
I  shall  also  gladly  answer,  sir,  anywhere  but  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  my  sovereign's  palace." 

"  Good-night,  Count  de  Grammont !"  said  a  deep  voice 
behind  them.  Both  turned ;  it  was  the  king,  with  a  mien  of 
unwonted  dignity,  if  severity  were  not  the  better  word.  The 
proud  Frenchman  could  but  bow  and  retire. 

The  face  of  Charles  relaxed,  as  he  asked,  "  Where  did  you 
learn  to  be  so  discreet,  so  young,  Captain  Bellarmyne  ?" 

"  Under  General  Montecuculi,  sire.  He  made  me  once  stand 
on  guard,  all  steel  from  my  teeth  to  my  toes,  from  the  rise  to 
the  -set  of  a  July  sun,  for  saluting  my  superior  officer  when  he 
wished  to  be  incognito." 

"  He  did  very  right,  sir,"  answered  Charles,  laughing ;  "  and 
he  seems  to  have  made  you  a  pretty  good  soldier.  Now,  if  you 
will  wait  on  Major-General  Craven,  at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,  he  will  be  very  glad  to  see  Major  Bellarmyne.  of  the 
Coldstream  Guards.     Pleasant  dreams  to  you,  major." 


the  king's  gratitude.  339 


CHAPTER  VI. 

blackheath;    an  attempt  and  a  failure. 

Three  days  succeeding  the  queen's  mask  flew  away,  to  Rosa- 
mond, on  wings  of  the  swiftest — perhaps  the  pleasantest  three 
days  she  had  ever  known.  The  court,  meanwhile,  was  full  of 
rumors,  the  least  definite  and  the  most  singular  imaginable. 
The  sudden,  and  incomprehensible  advancement  of  a  young, 
unknown  soldier;  representing  no  interest,  urged  forward  by  no 
favorite,  seemingly  without  recommendation  beyond  a  foreign 
order  of  merit,  to  a  grade  in  the. favorite  regiment  of  the  service 
which  great  lords  coveted,  would  have  been  in  itself  a  nine 
days'  wonder.  But  to  this  were  added  the  retirement  of  Ro- 
chester from  court,  no  one  knew  whither,  no  one  pretended  to 
conjecture  on  what  cause — the  quasi  disgrace  of  the  Chevalier 
de  Grammont ;  who,  though  he  was  still  constant  in  attendance 
on  the  royal  person,  still  sulked  and  held  himself  aloof,  while  no 
one,  Charles  the  least  of  all,  appeared  to  notice  his  ill-humor,  or 
to  regret  his  withdrawal,  who  a  little  while  before  had  been  the 
magnus  Aypollo  of  Whitehall — the  preferment  of  Major  Bellar- 
myne  not  only  to  his  military  grade,  but  to  something  nearly 
approaching  to  familiarity  with  the  easy  monarch,  who  distin- 
guished him  on  every  occasion,  constantly  required  his  presence, 
selected  him  as  the  companion  of  his  private  walks,  and  would, 
it  was  evident,  have  promoted  him  to  the  questionable  honor  of 
favoritism,  had  not  Armytage  shown  himself  utterly  intractable 
and  repugnant,  as  unfitted  alike  by  temper  and  principle  for  the 
envied  but  unenviable  post — and  last,  not  least,  the  reticence  of 
the  king,  who,  usually  so  garrulous  and  free  of  access,  held  perfect 
silence,  and  was  entirely  unapproachable  on  this  subject,  de- 


340  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

meaning  himself  in  all  other  respects  as  if  nothing  had  occurred 
out  of  the  ordinary  course,  and  appearing  even  gayer  and  more 
lighthearted  than  his  wont. 

The  least  of  these  events  would  have  sufficed,  even  in  busier 
circles,  where  luxury  and  leisure  are  less  prolific  of  idle  surmises 
and  flippant  scandal,  to  set  the  drones  a-buzzing,  and  the  whole 
hive  humming  angrily,  if  not  yet  stinging.  Dire,  therefore,  in 
Whitehall,  was  the  confusion  of  tongues ;  wonderful  in  Spring- 
Garden  the  ruin  of  characters.  Yet,  for  all  this,  seeing  that 
Major  Bellarmyne  was,  not  dubiously,  the  rising  man  of  the  day, 
and  in  favor  both  with  the  king's  and  the  queen's  circles,  it  is 
wonderful  how  soon  all  the  handsomest  women  of  the  court  dis- 
covered a  thousand  manly  charms  and  graces  in  his  person,  a 
thousand  attractions  in  his  air  and  conversation,  of  which  no 
one  had  ever  before  suspected  him ;  and  how  all  the  men 
reported  him  a  person  of  parts  no  less  shining  than  solid,  a 
fellow  of  infinite  wit,  in  short  the  most  desirable  of  companions, 
although  a  week  before  they  would  have  passed  him  in  the  Mall 
with  a  contemptuous  wonder  who  that  tall  fellow  might  be,  or 
a  sneer  at  the  soldier  of  fortune. 

Nor  is  it  much  more  easy  of  explanation  how  Eosamond,  who 
had  for  months  been  left  almost  alone,  in  the  midst  of  an  un- 
sympathizing  crowd,  to  endure  persecutions  which  she  could  not 
avoid,  now  that  she  was  connected,  both  by  similarity  of  name 
and  by  the  intimacy  which  the  king  undoubtedly  fostered 
between  them,  with  the  new  hero  of  the  minute,  became  the 
object  of  so  much  friendly  regard  and  attention,  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible,  had  he  attempted  it,  for  the  count  to 
renew  the  importunities  which,  had  rendered  her  past  life  almost 
insupportable. 

Neither  Rosamond,  however,  nor  her  newly  acquired  friend 
and  cousin — of  whose  existence  she  had  never  even    heard 


THE    KINGS    GRATITUDE.  341 

a  week  since  —  attached  much  importance,  or  paid  much 
regard  to  the  fickle  favors  of  the  courtier  crowd.  To  both  of 
them  it  was  a  new  phase  of  existence ;  to  her  who  had  never 
known  one  of  her  own  blood,  except  her  father,  too  far  re- 
moved from  herself  in  years  to  be  more  than  a  tenderly  loved 
and  dutifully  reverenced  parent,  it  was  a  new  delight  to  find  a 
kinsman  on  whose  strength  she  might  repose,  in  whose  honor 
she  might  confide,  in  whose  conversation  she  might  find — 
something  long  sought  but  undiscovered — truth  blended  with 
wit,  sincerity  undivorced  from  the  lighter  graces,  to  whom  she 
could  disclose  much  which  it  had  sorely  galled  her  to  conceal, 
almost  as  if  he  had  been  a  dear  elder  brother. 

And  for  him  whose  life  had  been  spent  for  the  most  part 
in  the  tented  field,  in  the  actual  shock  of  the  heady  fight,  or  in 
the  dull  monotony  of  the  camp,  who  had  mingled  but  little  in 
female  society,  and  that  little  only  ceremoniously  according  to 
the  formal  routine  of  the  continental  courts,  now  to  find  him- 
self thrown,  as  if  naturally,  into  close  and  intimate  association 
with  one  so  beautiful,  so  frank,  so  charming  in  her  innocence 
and  artless  graces,  one  whom  nothing  should  lead  him  to 
regard  as  a  stranger,  but  rather  to  protect  and  cherish  as  his 
nearest  of  kin  on  earth,  except  those  of  the  elder  generation,  it 
possessed  a  pleasure  greater  far  than  the  mere  fascination  of 
novelty. 

All  those  who  have  travelled  or  sojourned  long  abroad,  know 
well  what  a  void  they  have  felt  about  the  heart  on  returning 
to  the  old  home  and  finding  that  for  them  it  is  no  longer  home 
— that  they  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  old  familiar  faces ;  that 
the  old  friends  are  dead ;  the  young  friends  dispersed,  es- 
tranged, occupied  with  new  friends,  new  ties,  new  pleasures, 
new  associations ;  that,  in  quitting  the  land  of  the  stranger 


342  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

tliey  have  in  truth  broken  off  the  later,  though  without  reco- 
vering the  older,  bonds  of  companionship. 

Particularly  had  this  been  the  case  with  Armytage  Bellar- 
myne.  He  had  left  England  when  little  more  than  a  mere 
boy  ;  his  mother  he  had  never  known  ;  brothers,  sisters, 
kinsmen,  and  kinswomen,  he  had  none.  Sir  Reginald  and  his 
daughter,  who  were,  though  his  nearest  relatives,  but  distant 
cousins,  had  been  in  exile  from  a  time  beyond  the  date  of  his 
earliest  memory  ;  in  truth,  he  remembered  not  ever  to  have 
heard  oHhem  at  home. 

But  he  had  heard  much,  pitied  much,  sympathized  much 
abroad ;  for  he  had  learned  there,  on  all  sides,  of  the  doings 
and  the  sufferings  of  the  elder  branch  of  his  house,  of  the  un- 
faltering loyalty  and  faith,  of  the  extreme  poverty  and  unbend- 
ing integrity  of  the  old  cavalier,  and  something  of  the  beauty 
and  high  qualities  of  his  daughter. 

Having  left  home,  known  to  no  relations,  and  to  few  friends 
beyond  mere  school-companions,  the  weariness,  the  void,  the 
sense  of  strangeness  he  experienced,  finding  himself,  not  figura- 
tively, but  indeed  a  stranger  in  the  land  of  his  birth,  were  so 
overpowering  that  he  had  indeed  meditated  returning — as  he 
had  informed  the  king  he  wished  to  do — to  take  arms  under 
his  old  commander,  who  was  in  hourly  expectation  of  being 
called  into  the  field  against  the  redoubtable  forces  of  the  Turk, 
who  was  then  held  in  awe  by  the  strongest  powers  of  conti- 
nental Europe. 

Here,  then,  were  two  young  persons  thrown  together  into 
that  most  perfect  and  confidential  of  all  solitudes,  the  solitude 
of  a  crowd  ;  because  it  is  solitude  without  having  the  air  of 
being  such,  and,  as  being  liable  to  slight  interruptions,  which 
do  not  in  truth  interrupt  it,  awakens  no  sense  of  strangeness, 
no  idea  of  alarm,  or  suspicion  of  impropriety. 


the  king's  gratitude.  343 

Far  otherwise,  indeed,  for  it  -seemed  to  be  agreed  by  com- 
mon consent  of  all  around  them  that  they  were  to  be  partners, 
companions  on  all  occasions  together ;  and  who  that  has  ever 
been  so  placed,  knows  not  how  strongly  that  operates,  in  faci- 
litating, almost  in  creating,  intimacy. 

Inclined  from  the  first  to  be  pleased — to  like  each  the  other 
— every  moment  drew  them  nearer  and  nearer  together  ; 
'  topics  of  mutual  interest  were  not  wanting,  for  the  young 
soldier  never  wearied  of  listening  to  his  artless  companion's 
descriptions  of  the  old  ivy-mantled  abbey,  grey  and  neglected 
among  its  unshorn  woods  and  fern-encumbered  chase,  a  world 
too  wide  for  its  shrunken  demesnes  ;  and  the  deep  sympathy 
he  evinced  for  the  aged,  honorable  veteran,  sitting  alone,  in 
his  old  age,  in  the  grand  gloom  of  his  ancestral  halls,  brooding 
over  the  ruins  of  his  dilapidated  fortunes,  with  no  child,  no 
dear  friend,  no  veteran  companion,  to  fill  his  cup  or  smoothe 
his  pillow,  or  soften  the  downward  path  of  his  declining  years ; 
with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  on  earth  but  a  deserted  death- 
bed, and  the  care  of  menials,  would  alone  have  bound  Rosa- 
mond to  him  with  chains  of  steel,  had  there  been  nothing  else 
to  draw  them  together. 

But  she,  too,  like  Desdemona,  would  seriously  incline  her 
ear  to  what  he  had  to  relate  of  foreign  climes  and  customs, 
and  to  the  chances  and  romances,  the  gleams  of  chivalry  and 
touches  of  sweet  mercy,  which  are  the  redeeming  tints  in  the 
black  hue  of  battle-histories,  the  "  one  touch  of  nature  "  which 
indeed  makes  the  "  whole  world  kin." 

And  from  liking,  they  imperceptibly  glided  on  into  loving, 
without  being  led  at  all  to  examine  into  the  nature  of  their 
feelings,  without  suspecting  or  inquiring  how  things  went  with 
them,  until  Armytage  awoke  and  found  that  he  had  been 
dreaming  how  pleasant  it  would  be,  and  how  excellent  a  use 


344  PERSONS   AND   PICTURES. 

of  his  father's  hoarded  stores  and  ponderous  money-bags,  to 
redeem  the  sequestered  acres  and  restore  the  antique  glories  of 
Bellarmyne  Abbey ;  and  to  cheer  the  sad  and  solitary  days  of 
old  Sir  Reginald,  by  giving  him  a  stout  and  soldierly  son's 
arm  whereon  to  prop  his  tottering  steps ;  and  then,  by  an 
easy  transition,  to  fancy  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  see 
Rosamond  presiding  as  the  household  deity,  serene  in  youthful 
beauty,  the  cherished  daughter,  adored  wife,  and  charming 
mother. 

And  Rosamond,  too,  began  to  count  the  minutes  when 
Armytage  was  absent,  and  to  look  wistfully  for  his  tall  figure 
in  the  crowded  ball  or  banquet-hall ;  and  to  thrill  and  blush 
and  tremble  when  she  saw  him  coming ;  and  to  wonder  why 
she  was  such  a  little  fool  to  shake  and  quiver  like  an  aspen 
leaf  at  his  approach,  when  she  was  so  glad  to  have  him  come. 

And  the  good-natured  king  chuckled  and  laughed  within 
himself,  perfectly  content  and  delighted  at  the  success  of  his 
plans.  He  knew  how  the  elder  branch  of  the  Bellarmynes 
had  lost  all  in  his  own  and  his  father's  cause ;  and  now  that 
he  had  begun  to  think  about  it  at  all,  he  both  thought  and 
felt  strongly.  If  he  could  easily  have  redressed  their  griev- 
ances, he  had  done  so  eagerly  ;  but,  in  truth,  he  had  not  the 
power  to  redress  them  by  any  means.  The  sequestered  lands 
had  been  sold  to  innocent  third  parties,  and  these  were  secured 
by  amnesty  at  the  restoration.  There  were  no  means  of  in- 
demnifying the  impoverished  and  ruined  cavaliers ;  the  court 
was  needy,  thriftless,  improvident,  indebted,  and,  between  his 
ladies,  and  his  favorites,  and  his  pleasures,  the  king  was  for  the 
most  part  penniless. 

But  he  had  conceived  this  plan  of  rewarding  his  staunch 
old  veteran,  and  of  building  up  his  broken  fortunes  by  means 
of  the  vast  wealth  of  the  London  merchant ;  making,  at  the 


the  king's  gratitude.  345 

same  time,  two  very  charming  young  persons  happy,  bringing 
together  a  dissevered  family  connection,  reinstating  a  fine  old 
hereditary  estate,  a  fine  old  hereditary  name — in  a  word,  if  not 
of  doing  a  good  action,  at  least  of  bringing  about  a  good 
result.  To  effect  this  he  was  willing  —  yes !  he  was  even 
willing  to  take  some  personal  trouble.  It  was  rather  amusing, 
by  the  way,  than  the  reverse.  He  had  made  up  his  mind, 
if  he  could  bring  it  about,  to  create  a  new  peerage,  in  which 
Sir  Reginald  should  be  first  baron,  with  remainder  to  the 
citizen's  son,  if  that  might  facilitate  matters ;  and,  as  he  saw 
all  things  in  progress  as  he  would  have  them,  he  began  to  wax 
proud  and  happy  in  self-approbation,  and  to  fancy  himself  a 
sort  of  Deus  ex  machina,  descending  to  solve  a  knot  indisso- 
luble by  the  efforts  of  his  faithful  subjects. 

It  occurs,  not  so  seldom  as  we  are  apt  to  imagine,  however, 
that  some  sudden  incident  or  -occurrence — accidents,  perhaps, 
in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  are  not — will  often  either  pro- 
duce, or  mature  and  expedite  results  which  the  most  skilful 
management  .and  the  wisest  counsels  would  have  failed  to 
bring  to  so  felicitous  a  termination.  Times  will  occur  when  all 
things  appear  to  keep  in  one  consentient  current,  accidentally, 
as  it  were,  tending — yet  with  a  purpose  so  evident,  a  direction 
so  manifest,  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  the  interposition  of 
an  unknown,  overruling  will — to  one  desired  or  dreaded  event, 
one  favorable  or  disastrous  end ;  and  so  it  fell  out  in  this 
instance. 

A  grand  stag-hunt  was  to  be  held  in  honor  of  some  foreign 
prince  of  one  of  the  small  German  states,  who  happened  to 
be  on  a  visit  at  Whitehall ;  and  all  the  court  circle  were 
ordered  to  attend  on  an  appointed  day,  the  court  itself  ad- 
journing for  the  time  to  Windsor  Castle,  and  those  who  were 
not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  of  the  royal  party  taking  up  their 

16 


346  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

quarters,  wherever  they  might  find  them,  in  the  town  of 
Windsor,  or  the  adjacent  villages,  as  Datchet,  Egham,  Staines, 
and  Kingston-upon-Thames,  all  of  which  were  crowded  with 
gay  guests  and  splendid  retinues  of  horses,  livery  servants,  and 
followers  of  all  kinds. 

Major  Bellarmyne  was  one  of  the  fortunate  few  who  were 
ordered  to  attend  at  the  castle  ;  and,  on  the  eve  of  his  depar- 
ture, received  his  appointment  as  chief  equerry  to  his  majesty, 
which  of  course  relieved  him  from  duty  with  his  regiment. 

The  day  appointed  for  the  hunt — a  rare  occurrence  for  fete 
days — dawned  auspiciously,  warm,  soft,  and  slightly  overclouded, 
precisely  such  a  day  as  huntsmen  love,  and  lady  equestrians  do 
not  hate,  as  there  was  neither  sun  enough  to  offend  their  fair 
complexions,  nor  wind  to  disturb  their  plumes,  or  ruffle  then- 
flowing  draperies/ 

At  an  early  hour  the  heath  was  alive  with  gay  and  animated 
groups  ;  large  tents  were  pitched  on  a  rising  ground,  with  the 
royal  banner  floating  above  them,  in  which  a  superb  collation 
was  to  be  served  at  noon  ;  while  the  bands  of  the  Lifeguards 
and  Oxford  Blues,  then  as  now  the  magnificent  household  troops 
of  the  British  sovereign,  made  the  wild  echoes  ring  with  the 
symphonies  of  their  brazen  instruments.  Deer,  which  had  been 
taken  in  toils  in  Windsor  forest,  were  on  the  ground  in  carts, 
to  be  released  and  coursed  by  the  fleet  and  superb  English  grey- 
hounds, a  breed  of  dog  which  had  already  been  brought  to  a 
high  degree  of  perfection  by  Lord  Oxford  and  others ;  and  the 
wide,  open,  undulating  stretches  of  the  heath  being  excellently 
appropriate  to  the  sport,  and  the  day  in  every  light  propitious, 
great  sport  was  anticipated.  Nor  did  the  result  deceive  the 
expectation.  Course  succeeded  course,  proving  alike  the  speed 
and  strength  of  the  noble  red  deer,  and  the  unrivalled  ardor, 
courage,  and  condition  of  the  gallant  greyhounds. 


the  king's  gratitude.  347 

The  king  was  in  the  highest  spirits  and  good  humor,  for  out 
of  the  first  five  matches  his  dogs  had  won  three,  and  the  best 
of  his  kennel  had  not  yet  been  slipped.  It  was  about  ten 
o'clock — for  our  ancestors,  if  they  had  many  vices,  had  at  least 
the  one  virtue  of  rising  early  in  the  morning,  and  on  that  day 
the  beauties  of  King  Charles's  court  were  mounted  and  a-field, 
radiant  in  fresh  beauty,  almost  as  soon  as  Aurora  herself — when 
the  king  observing  that  Bellarmyne,  according  to  the  duties  of 
his  office,  followed  closely  at  his  heels,  called  to  him,  pointing 
as  he  spoke  to  a  fair  bevy  of  maids-of-honor  with  their  atten- 
dant cavaliers,  among  whom  the  graceful  figure  of  Rosamond 
Bellarmyne  was  conspicuous. 

"  Major  Bellarmyne,"  he  said,  "  for  att  we  have  named  you 
our  equerry  in  chief,  it  is  not  with  the  purpose  of  tying  you  to 
our  horse's  tail,  or  keeping  you  dangling  after  us  from  matins 
to  midnight  Away  with  you,  sir ;  yonder  is  metal  more 
attractive,  if  I  be  not  the  worse  mistaken,  than  the  best  stag 
that  ever  ran  upon  four  legs  over  lifted  lea  or  mountain  heather. 
Away  !  we  will  summon  you,  if  we  need  your  presence." 

De  Grammont,  with  a  group  of  other  gentlemen  and  nobles, 
was  about  the  king  and  his  princely  guest  when  the  courteous 
words  were  uttered  ;  but  Armytage  paused  not  to  see  who  heard 
or  heard  not,  but  galloped  away  joyously  to  join  her  whom  he 
had  already  begun  to  admit  to  himself  as  the  mistress  of  his 
heart. 

By  this  time,  as  was  unavoidable  from  the  nature  of  the  sports, 
the  company  had  become  much  scattered,  many  of  the  chases 
having  been  long  and  nearly  straight  on  end ;  and,  as  each  deer 
was  taken,  a  .fresh  one  was  driven  up,  as  fast  as  four  horses 
could  convey  the  light  cart  which  contained  it  to  the  scene  of 
the  last  capture,  so  that  there  was  no  general  rallying  point  for 
the  straggling  groups,  but  the  scene  of  action  varied  from  point 


348  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

to  point,  over  the  wide  extent  of  wild  heath,  open  clowns,  and 
forest  land,  which  was  then  included  in  the  royal  chase  of 
Blackheath. 

In  spite  of  this,  however,  many  minutes  did  not  elapse  before 
Armytage  had  found  his"  lady,  who,  infinitely  the  best  rider  of 
the  whole  field  of  beauties,  though  but  indifferently  mounted, 
was  riding  with  Miss  Bagot,  who  was  but  a  timid  horsewoman, 
and  a  single  cavalier  only,  the  young  Lord  Dynevor,  who  greatly 
affected  the  society  of  that  graceful  nymph ;  the  rest  of  their 
party  having  just  separated  from  them  in  order  to  approach 
nearer  to  the  royal  presence. 

Scarcely  had  he  exchanged  the  first  salutations  with  his  fair 
lady  before  a  noble  h^*t,  with  no  less  than  ten  tines  to  his  ant- 
lers, being  what  is  technically  called  a  hart  royal,  was  uncarted, 
and,  taking  their  direction,  came  sweeping  gracefully  past  them, 
followed  by  three  choice  greyhounds,  and  close  behind  these  by 
the  king,  his  royal  guest,  and  the  best  mounted  of  the  courtiers. 
The  fears  of  Miss  Bagot,  and  the  indifference  of  Rosamond's 
hunter,  soon  threw  our  party  far  in  the  rear ;  for  the  stag  was 
strong  and  ran  wild,  pointing  towards  the  Surrey  hills,  and, 
though  they  contrived  to  keep  the  hunt  in  sight,  they  were  at 
least  a  mile  distant  when  the  gallant  beast  was  run  into  and 
pulled  down,  on  a  heathery  knoll  crowned  by  a  single  fir  tree, 
near  to  which  they  might  see  the  straggling  hunters,  as  thej^ 
came  up  one  by  one,  gathering  towards  the  person  of  the  sove- 
reign. 

It  was  during  the  gallop,  which  they  were  forcing  to  the  best 
powers  of  both  riders  and  ridden,  that  the  attention  of  Army- 
tage was  attracted  to  the  strange  apparition  of  a  carriage  and 
six  horses,  one  of  the  huge,  cumbersome  wheeled  caravans  of 
the  time,  followed  by  two  mounted  servants,  without  liveries 
or  badges,  manoeuvring  hither  and  thither  among  the  intricate, 


the  king's  gratitude.  349 

deep-soiled,  and  sunken  lanes  which  intersect  the  surface  of  the 
heath;  but  he, thought  nothing  of  the  circumstance,  except  to 
point  it  out  to  the  party,  with  a  laughing  expression  of  wonder 
as  to  who  could  be  so  fond  of  the  chase  as  to  follow  a  stag-hunt 
in  a  coach  and  six. 

He  had  scarce  spoken  of  it,  when  the  vehicle  and  its  train 
were  lost  to  sight  in  the  skirts  of  a  wide  tract  of  hazel  coppice, 
which  covered  the  country  for  many  miles  of  space,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Luckfield  and  St.  Leonard's  forest ;  and  almost  at  the 
same  moment,  a  man  in  the  royal  livery  galloped  up  at  full 
speed,  exclaiming — "  Major  Bellarmyne, Major  Bellarmyne !  His 
majesty  is  instant  to  see  Major  Bellarmyne  !" 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but,  however  unwilling,  to  obey; 
and  bowing  low  to  Rosamond  and  Miss  Bagot — "  I  leave  you, 
my  lord,"  he  said,  "  even  as  I  found  you,  one  cavalier  to  two 
fair  ladies ;  a  grave  charge  to  protect  and  entertain  them." 

And,  setting  spurs  to  his  fine,  thorough-bred  charger,  which 
was  quite  fresh,  he  was  soon  at  a  distance ;  while  the  servant 
in  royal  livery  uncovered  as  the  ladies  passed,  and  dropped  into 
the  rear  as  if  to  attend  them. 

Nothing  which  had  passed  as  yet  had  excited  any  surprise 
in  Bellarmyne's  mind ;  but  as  he  rode  up  at  full  speed,  with  his 
horse  a  little  blown,  pulled  up,  and  uncovering  close  to  the 
king's  side  stood,  evidently  waiting  orders,  the  inquiring  look  of 
Charles  perplexed  him. 

"  So  please  your  majesty,  I  am  here  at  your  orders." 

"  So  I  perceive,  sir,"  said  Charles  laughing.  "  To  what  do  I 
owe  the  pleasure  of  your  presence  ?" 

"  Your  majesty  sent  after  me." 

"  Not  I,  sir,  on  my  honor  !  When  ?  By  whom  ?  I  have 
not  even  thought  about  you  since  I  sent  you  to  wait  on  Miss 
Bellarmyne." 


350  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

"  Not  twenty  minutes  since,  by  one  of  the  grooms  of  the 
household." 

"There  is  some  trick  here,  sir;  or,  at  the  least,- some  scurvy 
jest.  Odds  fish !  who  hath  done  this,  gentlemen  ?"  cried 
Charles,  looking  angrily  about  him.  "I  like  not  such  free- 
doms." ,  ' 

Bellarmyne's  eye  glanced  half-suspiciously  over  the  group ; 
the  Chevalier  de  Grammont  was  no  •  longer  near  the  king's 
person.  An  instinct  or  intuition  made  him  turn  his  head  and 
gaze  eagerly  in  the  direction  where  he  had  last  seen  the  coach 
and  six. 

He  saw  it  now  issuing,  at  full  gallop,  from  the  coppice,  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  spot  where  he  had  last  seen  it, 
thundering  along  amid  a  cloud  of  dust  towards  London.  Its 
followers  had  increased  to  six  persons,  and  one,  who  rode  the 
last,  was  evidently  a  man  of  distinction. 

"  By  God !"  cried  Armytage,  forgetful  of  the*  presence  in 
which  he  stood,  and  striking  his  clenched  hand  on  his  thigh — 
"By  God  !   he  has  carried  her  off!" 

"Who,  sir?  Carried  whom  off?  What  do  you  mean?" 
cried  Charles,  too  much  excited  to  observe  the  breach  of  eti- 
quette. 

"  Mistress  Bellarmyne,  sire — the  Chevalier  de  Grammont ! 
Here  comes  her  horse,  and  Miss  Bagot,  and  my  Lord  Dynevor 
to  tell  us  of  it." 

"  Odds  fish  !  he  shall  repent  it,"  cried  the  king,  very  angrily. 
But  Bellarmyne  had  not  waited  to  hear  his  reply,  but  had  put 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  was  already  a  hundred  yards  distant, 
riding,  as  straight  as  a  crow  flies,  toward  the  heads  of  the  coach 
horses,  which  were  forced  to  describe  a  sort  of  semicircle  round 
the  hillock  on  which  the  king  sat,  owing  to  the  intricacies  of 
the  lane,  and  the  difficult  nature  of  the  ground. 


the  king's  gratitude.  351 

"  After  him,  gentlemen  !"  cried  the  king.  "  Away  with  you ! 
Crofts,  Brouncher,  Sydney,  Talbot,  Tollemache— Ride,  ride, 
my  favor  to  him  who  stops  yonder  carriage.  Bring  them  before 
us,  both ;  and  have  all  care  to  the  lady.  Ride,  ride,  or  we  shall 
have  hot  blood  spilt." 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  they  spurred ;  for  Bellarmyne  rode 
as  if  the  devil  drove  him. 

Two  or  three  broad,  bright,  bankfull  brooks  crossed  his  line, 
but  he  swept  over  them  in  his  stroke  as  if  they  were  but  cart- 
ruts. 

Now  a  white  handkerchief  was  waved  from  the  window  of 
the  carriage.  A  stiff  stone  wall,  full  five  feet  high,  opposed  his 
progress  —in  went  his  spurs,  down  went  his  elbows,  and,  with  a 
hard  pull  at  his  head,  the  good  horse  cleared  it.  There  was 
now  only  a  smooth  slope  of  two  hundred  yards,  or  a  little  more, 
between  him  and  the  lane,  along  which  the  lumbering  carriage 
was  rolling  and  jolting  at  headlong  speed ;  but  the  servants,  who 
followed  it,  were  spurring  out  and  drawing  their  swords  as  if  to 
intercept  him. 

But  he  gave  his  good  horse  the  rein  and  spur,  shot  ahead  of 
the  foremost,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  abreast  of  the  leaders, 
calling  vehemently  on  the  postillion  to  stop  if  he  would  save  his 
life.  But  the  boy  only  spurred  on  the  more  fiercely,  and  struck 
at  the  young  officer  with  his  whip. 

In  virtue  of  his  office  of  equerry,  holsters  were  at  his  saddle- 
bow, with  his  pistols  loaded.  He  drew  one,  and,  without  relax- 
ing his  speed,  shot  the  horse  on  which  the  boy  rode,  through  the 
heart.  It  bolted  upright  into  the  air  and  fell  dead,  the  others 
plunged  over  it,  one  or  two  stumbled  and  went  down,  the  coach 
was  overset. 

The  next  moment  De  Grammont  came  up  at  full  speed — . 


352  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

"  You  have  shot  my  horse — how  dare  you  ?  You  shall  an- 
swer for  it." 

"  Think  yourself  lucky,"  he  replied,  "  that  I  have  not  shot 
you!" 

The  chevalier  answered  by  an  insulting  word  in  French ;  and 
scarcely  was  it  uttered  before  Armytage's  sheathed  sword 
crossed  his  shoulders  with  a  smart  blow. 

Both  sprang  to  the  ground,  drew,  and  their  rapiers  were 
crossed  in  a  moment ;  but  by  this  time  the  gentlemen,  who  had 
followed  at  the  order  of  Charles,  galloped  in,  one  by  one. 

"  Swords  drawn  in  the  king's  sight,"  cried  Crofts,  who  came 
first.  "  Fie  !  gentlemen  !  hold  your  hands  !  You  are  under 
arrest !" 

Rosamond  had  fainted ;  but  by  aid  of  the  ladies  of  the  court, 
she  was  soon  restored  to  consciousness,  if  not  to  ease  of  mind. 

The  first  words  Charles  spoke  when  the  offenders  were  brought 
before  him  were  addressed  to  De  Grammont.  "  Chevalier,"  he 
said,  "  I  have  heard  that  my  brother,  Louis  XIV.,  desires  your 
return  to  Paris.  Major  Bellarmyne,  you  will  surrender  yourself 
to  the  authorities.  You  have  to  learn,  sir,  that  swords  are  not 
to  be  drawn  in  our  presence ;  and  that  justice  and  punishment 
both  belong  to  the  king." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Whitehall;  a  double  marriage. 

It  scarcely  need  be  stated  that  Rosamond  Bellarmyne's  letter, 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  caused  so  much  grief  and  anxiety  to 
stout  old  Sir  Reginald,  was  composed  and  sent  off  on  the  very 


the  king's  gratitude.  353 

morning  following  the  commission  of  the  outrage  on  Blackheath ; 
and  before  the  agitated  girl  had  recovered  from  the  consterna- 
tion and  excitement  into  which  this,  not  unprecedented,  violence 
had  thrown  her,  and  before  she  had,  indeed,  learned  anything 
accurate  concerning  the  situation  of  her  own  affairs,  or  the 
intentions  of  the  king. 

All,  in  fact,  that  she  had  heard  when  she  wrote  wore  an 
adverse  aspect.  The  very  outrageousness  of  such  an  attempt  in 
the  very  presence,  and  almost  under  the  eyes  of  the  king, 
seemed  to  carry  conviction  with  it,  that  the  attempt,  if  not 
made  under  his  direct  sanction,  was  felt  by  its  perpetrator  to  be 
one  which  would  not,  at  the  worst,  provoke  his  anger  to  evil 
consequences. 

To  this  consideration  De  Grammont's  long  and  insolent  im- 
portunities, the  king's  undeniable  allowance  and  indulgence  of 
them,  until  within  the  last  few  weeks,  were  naturally  added ; 
and  the  helplessness  of  her  own  isolated  and  friendless  condition 
recurred  with  tenfold  strength. 

She  had  heard  nothing,  when  she  wrote,  of  the  Chevalier  de 
Grammont's  honorary  exile  from  the  court  of  England ;  but  she 
had  heard,  so  much  more  quickly  does  ill  news  at  all  times 
speed  than  good,  of  Major  Bellarmyne's  imprisonment  in  New- 
gate, for  breach  of  privilege ;  and  to  this  intelligence  was  added 
the  heart-rending  information  that  the  penalty  of  his  offence 
was  no  less  than  mutilation,  by  the  loss  of  his  right  hand,  and 
that  in  his  case  there  was  little  prospect  of  any  relaxation,  since 
in  addition  to  the  offence  of  drawing  his  sword,  constructively, 
in  the  king's  presence,  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to  strike  a  noble- 
man high  in  the  favor  of  the  crown. 

Harassed  by  these  feelings,  reports,  and  imaginations,  the  poor 
girl  wrote,  as  may  be  imagined,  a  letter  which  would  have 
harassed  almost  to  madness  a  father  even  less  loving  and  less 

16* 


354  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

irritable  than  the  broken-spirited  and  failing  cavalier.  And 
little  she  imagined,  as  she  wrote,  that  the  superb  chevalier, 
whom  she  pictured  to  herself  as  flushed  with  triumph,  burning 
with  brilliant  hope,  ready  for  new  aggression,  and  backed  by 
the  favor  of  obsequious  majesty,  was  actually  at  the  moment 
when  she  was  penning  her  doleful  ditty  travelling,  as  hard  as 
post-horses  would  carry  him,  towards  Calais,  without  the  least 
idea  whither  he  should  next  betake  himself;  since  he  well  knew 
that  so  far  from  wishing  his  presence,  Louis  XIV.  was  much 
more  likely  to  commit  him  to  the  Bastile  than  to  welcome  him 
to  Paris ;  while  the  king,  whom  she  supposed  the  devoted  con- 
fidant of  De  Grammont's  pleasures,  was  in  reality  plotting 
against  him  the  bitterest  pleasantry  of  which  that  easy,  laughter- 
loving  prince  was  ever  guilty. 

Tired  in  body,  for,  having  no  mind  to  encounter  the  pleasan- 
tries much  less  the  mock  condolences  of  his  fellow-courtiers,  he 
had  taken  horse  at  daybreak  on  the  morning  following  the 
stag-hunt,  and  ridden  post  without  dismounting,  except  to 
change  horses,  discomfited  in  his  projects,  vexed  with  himself, 
and  angry  with  the  world,  De  Grammont  had  reached  the 
Crown  Inn  at  Dover  late  in  the  evening,  had  refused  all  offers 
of  supper,  had  drunk  deeply,  contrary  to  his  custom,  and  re- 
tired to  bed,  with  the  intent  to  forget  his  cares  in  a  good  night's 
rest. 

But  even  in  this  reasonable  hope  the  unfortunate  Frenchman 
was  frustrated ;  for,  before  he  had  been  in  bed  two  hours,  a 
prodigious  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  court-yard  awakened  him, 
and  the  inn  was  in  a  bustle,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  until  it  was 
almost  morning. 

At  length  he  fell  asleep ;  and  scarce  were  his  eyes  closed 
before  his  celebrated  valet,  Termes,  the  greatest  thief,  the  most 
impudent  liar,  but  the  best  valet  de  chambre  living,  entered 


the  king's  gratitude.  355 

his  chamber  with  the  announcement  that  two  gentlemen  were 
below  stairs,  who  had  ridden  post  from  London,  in  order  to 
have  the  honor  of  paying  him  their  compliments  before  sailing ; 
and  that  they  desired  the  pleasure  of  his  company,  so  soon  as 
he  had  made  his  toilet. 

No  further  information  could  be  obtained  from  Termes, 
although  De  Grammont  could  perceive  by  a  single  glance  at 
the  queer  grimaces  into  which  that  paragon  of  servants  was 
delighting  himself  by  contorting  his  nut-cracking  nose  and 
chin,  that  he  was  thoroughly  aware  what  was  in  the  wind ;  and 
moreover,  he  shrewdly  suspected  that  it  boded  himself  no  good. 

No ;  Monsieur  Termes  knew  nothing  about  it.  He  had  not 
seen  the  gentlemen  ;  only  the  waiter  of  the  hotel.  He  did  not 
give  their  names,  in  fact  he  did  not  know  them ;  they  had 
ridden  post,  and  brought  no  domestic  with  them.  But  apparem- 
ment  they  were  friends  of  Monsieur  le  Comte ;  otherwise  why 
should  they  have  ridden  so  far  to  have  the  honor  of  paying 
their  compliments  ?  "What  suit  would  it  please  the  count  to 
wear — the  maroon  riding-dress  with  purple  trimmings — or  the 
blue  and  silver  ?  If  it  would  please  the  chevalier  to  bestir  him- 
self, for  the  gentlemen  were  waiting. 

So  the  chevalier  consigned  Termes  to  perdition,  and  did 
bestir  himself.  He  put  on  his  blue  and  silver  suit,  and  his  best 
riding  peruke,  and  his  jack-boots  and  spurs ;  and  so  descend- 
ing to  the  breakfast-parlor,  found  there  waiting  him  his  dear 
friend,  Count  Antony  Hamilton,  the  witty  author  of  his  me- 
moirs, and  his  brother  George,  both,  like  himself,  booted  and 
spurred,  with  their  riding-swords  at  their  sides;  but,  unlike 
him,  each  with  a  pair  of  long-barrelled  pistols  at  his  belt. 

"  Good-morrow  to  you,  chevalier,"  they  ^oth  exclaimed  in  a 
breath,  as  he  entered,  making  him  profound  congees ;  u  Have 
you  not  forgotten  something  in  London  V 


356  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

"  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  replied  the  imperturbable  French- 
man, with  a  low  bow.  "I  have  forgotten — to  marry  your 
sister.  So  lead  on,  and  let  us  finish  that  affair.  But  I  fancy 
it  must  be  finished  in  the  Tower ;  for  our  old  friend,  Kowley, 
is  sure  to  send  me  thither,  as  soon  as  he  learns  that  I  have 
returned  to  London,  in  the  teeth  of  his  gentle  hint  at  honora- 
ble exile." 

"  By  no  means,  count,"  answered  Antony,  with  a  smile  and 
a  bow ;  "  in  that  case  we  could  not  have  allowed  you  to  re- 
turn, in  spite  of  your  anxiety  to  do  us  and  our  sister  this 
honor.  We  have  a  license  with  us  from  his  majesty  for  your 
return  and  reception  at  court."  And  with  the  words  he  hand- 
ed to  the  count  a  parchment,  which  was  thus  inscribed : 

"  We  hereby  grant  free  permission  to  the  Count  de  Gram- 
mont  to  return  to  London,  and  remain  there  six  days,  in  prose- 
cution of  his  lawful  affairs ;  and  we  accord  to  him  the  license 
to  be  present  at  our  palace  of  Whitehall,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  betrothal  to  our  gracious  consort's  maid-of-honor,  the  beau- 
tiful Mistress  Elizabeth  Hamilton. 
"  Given  at  our  palace  of  Whitehall, 

"this  16th  day  of  September,  1663. 

"Charles  E." 

Whereupon  they  breakfasted  together,  each  with  what  appe- 
tite he  might ;  and  then  rode  back  to  London,  with  much  less 
velocity  and  bustle  than  they  had  ridden  down. 

Of  this,  however,  Rosamond  Bellarmyne  knew  nothing ;  much 
less  did  she  suspect  that  the  genuine,  honest-hearted  old  Lon- 
don merchant  had  been  closeted  nearly  three  hours  tete-a-tete 
with  the  king,  much  to  the  wonder  of  the  courtiers,  on  matters 
closely  connected  with   herself,  though  this  was   the    king's 


i  the  king's  gratitude.  357 

secret ;  and  that  thereafter  he  had  gone  to  Newgate,  provided 
with  a  document  bearing  the  sign-manual,  on  the  exhibition  of 
which  Major  Bellarmyne  was  immediately  discharged,  his 
sword  being  duly  restored  to  him ;  whereupon  he  took  horse 
within  half  an  hour,  having  his  pockets  filled  with  a  voluminous 
epistle,  as  long  as  a  modern  title-deed  to  an  estate,  and  a  fat 
purse,  and  was  riding,  when  last  seen,  followed  by  a  couple  of 
stout  serving  men,  at  the  deliberate  pace  of  an  old  traveller  who 
has  a  long  journey  before  him,  out  of  town  by  the  great  North 
Road. 

For  the  benefit  of  those  whose  imaginations  are  not  lively 
enough  to  forebode  what  ensued,  it  may  be  necessary  to  state, 
that  before  Sir  Reginald  Pellarmyne's  touching  letter  arrived 
at  the  house  of  Nicholas  in  the  Minories,  the  emperor's  young 
soldier,  now  the  king's  officer,  Armytage  Bellarmyne,  had 
alighted  at  the  gates  of  the  old  abbey,  well  furnished  with  cre- 
dentials, not  from  his  father  only,  but  from  the  Majesty  of 
England,  backing  his  suit  for  the  fair  hand  of  the  maid-of- 
honor. 

To  these  also  it  may  be  necessary  to  say,  that  the  old  cheva- 
lier was  too  implicit  a  believer  in  the  doctrine  of  passive  obe- 
dience, to  dream  of  disputing  the  will  of  the  king ;  that  the  good 
Dowager  of  Throckmorton  was  already  in  London,  when  the 
old  baronet,  cured  of  his  gout  by  the  best  of  all  remedies,  a 
dose  of  unexpected  happiness,  dismounted  at  the  palace-gates, 
to  claim  the  brief  possession  of  his  fair  child,  whom  he  was 
soon  to  give  away  for  ever — that  the  two  kinsmen,  so  long  and 
unnecessarily  estranged,  were  never  estranged  more ;  and  that 
on  the  festive  and  joyous  day  when  two  marriages  were  cele- 
brated in  the  chapel  of  Whitehall,  if  the  first  and  most  famous 
was  that  of  the  notorious  Count  de  Grammont  with  the  beau- 
tiful Miss  Hamilton,  the  most  interesting,  and,  as  after  days 


358  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

proved,  the  happiest,  was  that  of  Major  Armytage  Bellarmyne 
to  Rosamond,  the  no  less  beautiful  daughter  of  Reginald,  first 
Viscount  of  Bellarmyne. 

To  the  world,  who  have  heard  only  of  the  recklessness,  the 
heartlessness,  the  worldly  coldness,  ill  redeemed  by  his  facile 
and  frivolous  good-nature,  of  the  Second  Charles  of  England,  it 
may  appear  surprising ;  but  the  tenants  of  the  old  house,  so 
happily  reinstated,  of  Bellarmyne,  as  well  as  the  restored  avenue 
and  the  redeemed  acres,  truthful  although  mute  witnesses,  still 
tell  this  simple  tale  of  "  The  King's  Gratitude." 


«Bft  Stig  ate  rab; 


1085 


THE  LADY  ALICE  LISLE. 


It  was  late  on  a  dark  summer's  night,  the  day  following  the 
disastrous  field  of  Sedgemoor,  on  which  the  forces  of  the  king, 
under  the  incapable  voluptuary  Feversham,  had  annihilated  the 
rebel  army  of  Monmouth,  owing  scarcely  less  to  the  incapacity 
and  want  of  judgment  of  the  leader  himself,  than  to  the  cow- 
ardice of  his  general  of  the  horse,  Lord  Gray,  of  Werk.  The 
scene  lay  amid  the  wooded  hills  of  Hampshire,  or  that  skirt 
of  the  country  which  is  nearest  to  the  confines  of  Wiltshire. 
The  weather  was  wild  and  stormy,  though  in  the  height  of 
summer ;  the  wind  blowing  very  freshly  in  heavy  gusts  from 
the  southwest,  with  occasional  squalls  of  sharp,  driving  rain. 
The  skies  were  very  dim  and  gloomy,  although  the  moon  was 
neariy  at  the  full,  so  densely  were  they  overlaid  with  masses  of 
thick  grey  clouds,  drifting  onward,  still  onward,  layer  above 
layer,  before  the  driving  storm,  so  as  to  blot  the  stars  entirely 
from  the  visible  firmament,  and  only  at  times  to  suffer  a  faint 
lack-lustre  gleam  of  the  waning  moon  to  struggle  through  the 
rifts  of  the  changeful  vapors.  Dark,  however,  and  inauspicious 
as  the  night  would  have  been  pronounced  by  ordinary  way- 
farers, it  was  yet  hailed,  for  the  causes  which  would  have  ren- 
dered it  obnoxious  to  others,  by  two  pedestrians,  who,  seemingly 
almost  overdone  with  fatigue,  travel-stained,  and  splashed  from 


3G2  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

head  to  foot  with  fifty  different  shades  of  mud  and  clay,  con- 
tinued to  plod  sturdily  though  slowly  onward,  through  the  half- 
forest  scene,  amid  which  ran  the  narrow  and  unfrequented  coun- 
try road  by  which  they  were  travelling. 

One  of  these  men,  though  he  carried  ostensibly  no  arms,  nor 
wore  any  of  the  regular  trappings  or  insignia  of  the  soldier,  had 
yet  something  in  his  port,  carriage,  and  demeanor,  which  at 
once  indicated,  to  an  experienced  eye,  that  his  proper  pro- 
fession was  that  of  arms.  His  broad-leafed  hat  was  orna- 
mented with  a  band  and  feather,  and  though  he  was  on  foot  he 
wore  high  horseman's  boots,  from  which,  either  in  his  haste  or 
forgetful ness,  he  had  neglected  to  remove  a  pair  of  heavy 
spurs. 

The  other  person  was  older,  less  athletic  in  his  build,  and  was 
evidently  far  more  wearied  than  his  stouter  companion,  and  it 
was  with  pain  and  difficulty  that  he  struggled  feebly  through 
the  deep  mire  and  broken  ruts  of  the  ill-made  country  road. 
He  was  dressed  in  black,  with  the  band  of  a  non-conformist 
clergyman  about  his  neck,  and  the  close  fitting  black  skull-cap, 
which  had  procured  for  his  sect  the  contemptuous  name  of 
crop-ear,  under  his  steeple-crowned  hat. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  said  at  length,  after  stumbling  two  or  three 
times  so  badly  that  he  had  all  but  fallen  ;  "  I  can  go  no  further. 
Though  my  life  depended  on  it,  I  could  not  another  mile." 

"  Your  life  does  depend  on  it,"  replied  the  other,  shortly ; 
"  of  a  surety  the  avenger  of  blood  is  close  at  our  heels,  and 
the  broad-swords  of  the  Blues  are  just  as  thirsty  for  the  blood 
of  a  preacher  of  the  word,  whom  they  call  a  trumpeter  of  sedi- 
tion, as  for  that  of  a  man-at-arms.  Up  !  up  !  friend,  and  on- 
ward !  give  me  your  arm,  and  let  me  lead  you ;  nay,  if  it 
must  needs  be,  I.  will  carry  you.  For  the  house  of  the  woman 
of  Israel,  whom  men  call  the  Lady  Alice,  cannot  but  be  within 


THE    LADY    ALICE    LISLE.  363 

a  short  half  mile,  and  there  shall  we  have  shelter,  for  the  ask- 
ing, until  this  tyranny  be  over-past." 

The  preacher,  who  had  sat  down  utterly  exhausted  on  a 
bank  by  the  wayside,  replied  only  with  a  groan  to  this  friendly 
exhortation,  but  he  arose  to  make  another  effort  for  his  life,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  the  stalwart  arm  of  his  younger  and 
hardier  companion,  toiled  onward  by  a  steepish  ascent  which 
lay  before  them,  stumbling  at  every  step,  and  declaring  his  ina- 
bility to  proceed  even  for  the  sake  of  life. 

As  they  arrived,  however,  at  the  summit  of  the  hill,  a  glim- 
mering light  met  their  eyes,  seen  faintly  and  at  intervals 
through  the  foliage  of  the  thick  woodlands,  which  filled  the 
slopes  and  bottom  of  a  small  lap  of  land  into  which  they  were 
descending,  watered  by  a  rapid  and  tumultuous  brook,  swollen 
by  the  recent  rains,  whose  murmurs  came  up  to  their  ears  hoarse 
and  menacing. 

"  Heaven  be  praised  !"  exclaimed  the  soldier,  as  he  saw  the 
friendly  gleam,  "we  are  saved  !  That  light  burns  in  the  lat- 
tice of  the  lady,  the  pious  relict  of  the  God-fearing  patriot, 
John  Lisle.  The  sounds  of  the  brook  make  me  sure  of  it. 
Courage,  my  friend,  a  few  more  steps,  and  our  toils  and  perils 
shall  be  over." 

"  God  send  it  be  so,"  said  the  preacher.  "  But  think  you 
she  shall  give  us  shelter  when  she  knows  who  we  are,  and 
from  what  deed  we  come  ?  " 

"  Ay  !  do  I,"  replied  the  other,  confidently.  "  There  is  that 
in  the  heart  of  Alice  Lisle  that  would  not  suffer  her  to  yield 
up  even  her  most  deadly  enemy  to  the  sword  of  the  pursuer. 
She  is  all  woman  charity,  and  saintly  tenderness  and  mercy. 
Besides,  for  her  there  is  little  danger ;  she  is  known  through 
the  land  for  her  loyalty,  and  for  her  deeds  of  love  to  the 
cavaliers  in  the  days  of  their  tribulation.      No  one,  by  her 


364  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

prayers  and  intercession,  nay,  by  her  active  aid,  saved  more 
lives  of  the  king's  party  than  the  Lady  Alice.  No  one  shed 
more  tears,  or  more  openly,  over  the  death  of  King  Charles, 
when  to  shed  tears  in  itself  for  such  a  cause  was  perilous. 
Nay !  had  John  Lisle  listened  to  her  counsels,  or  yielded  to 
her  entreaties,  he  never  had  borne  the  name  of  regicide,  or 
perished  in  a  foreign  land  by  the  knives  of  assassins  for  his 
zeal  in  the  cause.  No  officer  of  the  enemy  would  ever  think 
of  searching  in  her  premises  for  rebels,  and  were  she  even 
convicted  of  harboring  them,  the  country  with  one  voice, 
Tory  as  much  as  Whig,  would  cry  aloud  m  her  behalf. 
Come  on,  we  are  saved,  I  tell  you.  But  it  needs  not  to  tell 
her  whence  we  come.  She  knows  you  for  a  nonconformist, 
and  may  well  believe  that  you  are  pursued  for  preaching 
without  license." 

As  he  said  these  words  they  had  come  to  the  banks  of  the 
flooded  stream,  which,  ordinarily  a  mere  thread  of  water,  was 
crossed  by  a  ford  scarce  ancle-deep  in  usual  weather.  Now 
it  was  a  wild  roaring  torrent,  at  least  waist  deep,  and  bridge- 
less.  Still  there  was  no  alternative ;  it  must  be  crossed  or 
they  must  die  on  the  hither  bank  so  soon  as  the  cavalry, 
which  were  scouring  the  country  on  every  side  in  merciless 
pursuit,  should  come  up  with  them. 

The  soldier  breasted  it  the  first,  and  bravely  ;  for  though 
the  current  was  so  strong  as  almost  to  take  him  off  his  legs, 
he  persisted,  forced  his  way  to  the  further  side, .  which  he 
reached  unharmed,  and  then,  after  pausing  a  moment  to 
recover  his  breath,  returned  to  assist  his  weaker  and  more 
timid  companion  across  the  dangerous  ford.  It  required 
some  persuasion  to  induce  the  divine,  who  was  far  more  daring 
in  resistance  to  the  authority  of  men,  and  defiance  of  the 
perils  of  the  law,  than  in  endurance  of  fatigue  and  suffering, 


THE    LADY    ALICE    LISLE.  365 

or  opposition  to  physical  dangers,  to  venture  himself  in  the 
deep  and  dangerous  flood ;  nor,  indeed,  was  it  strange  that 
a  person  of  weak  nerves  and  inconsiderable  bodily  force 
should  prefer  the  incurring  of  a  distant  and  uncertain  dan- 
ger, to  rushing  into  what  would  seem  immediate  death. 

The  energies  of  the  military  man  were  however  victorious 
over  the  fears  and  hesitations  of  the  preacher,  but  it  was  not 
without  some  gentle  violence  that  he  compelled  his  friend  to 
trust  to  his  own  courage  and  power,  which  he  asserted  were 
fully  equal  to  the  preservation  of  both  from  a  greater  danger 
than  any  threatened  by  the  sullen  eddies  of  the  swollen  brook. 

His  actions  indeed  made  good  his  assertions,  but  it  was  not 
without  a  severe  struggle,  and  the  exertion  of  every  nerve  to 
the  very  utmost,  that  he  succeeded  in  dragging  out  his  help- 
less and  half-drowned  companion  on  the  further  shore  ;  for, 
offering  no  resistance  to  the  stream,  and  opposing  only  an 
inert  body  to  its  force,  he  stumbled  in  the  hard  channel  and 
was  swept  down  the  stream,  dragging  his  more  robust  auxi- 
liary helplessly  along  with  him  for  some  yards.  It  is  doubt- 
ful, indeed,  whether  either  of  the  two  could  have  escaped, 
for  the  soldier  showed  no  disposition  to  extricate  himself  at 
the  sacrifice  of  the  other,  had  not  the  branches  of  a  large 
willow  tree,  growing  in  the  fence  through  an  opening  of 
which  the  stream  passed  into  the  adjoining  fields,  swept  the 
surface  of  the  waters,  and  fallen  by  chance  into  the  extended 
hand  of  the  stronger  of  the  fugitives.  By  aid  of  this,  he 
soon  reached  the  dry  ground,  and  dragged  out  the  groaning 
and  exhausted  preacher,  whom,  finding  that  he  was  now 
really  unable  to  proceed,  he  hoisted  on  his  shoulders,  and, 
weary  as  he  was  himself,  bore  for  nearly  half  a  mile  to  the 
gate,  which  gave  access  through  a  low  brick  wall  to  the 
demesnes  of  the  Lady  Alice  Lisle. 


366  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

It  was  a  small,  old-fashioned  red-brick  hall,  with  the  window 
casings  and  the  angles  faced  with  white  stone ;  a  small  court- 
yard, with  smoothly  shaved  turf  and  a  few  formal  evergreens, 
lay  upon  it ;  and  behind,  half  screened  by  a  belt  of  plantation, 
were  seen  indistinctly  the  out-houses  attached  to  the  dwelling 
of  a  rural  proprietor  in  those  days,  stables,  and  granaries, 
and  pigeon-house,  and  barns,  and  malt-house,  while  the  bay- 
ing of  several  large  dogs  from  the  farm-yards  showed  .  that 
the  stock  was  not  left  unprotected. 

The  light  which  the  fugitives  had  seen  from  a  distance 
still  burned  calmly  at  the  window  of  a  small  parlor  to  the 
right  of  the  door,  and  as  they  drew  nearer  to  the  house,  they 
could  distinguish  the  figure  of  the  lady  bending  over  a  large 
volume,  which  they  at  once  recognised  as  the  bible. 

"  It  is  a  good  omen,"  said  the  faint-hearted  priest.  "  One  so 
employed  shall  scarce  refuse  Christian  charity  and  succor." 

"  I  tell  you  that  she  would  not  do  it,  were  she  assured  that 
she  should  lose  her  own  life  thereby." 

"  Yerily,  a  sainted  woman,"  snuffled  the  preacher ;  "  and 
worthy  to  be  held  a  mother  of  Israel." 

"  She  is  worthy  to  be  held  a  right  noble  English  lady," 
answered  Nelthorpe,  abruptly,  as  if  he  were  half  disgusted 
either  by  the  cowardice  or  the  cant  of  his  companion,  whom 
he  addressed,  now  that  they  were  for  the  moment  in  a  place 
of  safety,  as  master,  though  with  far  less  warmth  of  manner 
than  he  had  done  while  they  were  both  in  actual  danger. 

At  the  first  summons,  the  door  of  the  hall  was  opened  by 
a  very  old  grey-headed  serving  man,  whom  Nelthorpe  in- 
stantly addressed  by  name,  as  an  old  acquaintance,  bidding 
him  tell  the  lady  that  he  and  pious  and  learned  Master  Hicks 
were  at  her  door  belated  and  weary  wanderers,  and  fugitives 
for  conscience  sake,  with  men  of  Belial  at  their  heels,  praying 


THE    LADY    ACE    LISLE,  36*7 

for  a  morsel  of  food,  and  a  night's  lodging  until  the  morrow 
morning,  when  they  would  go  on  their  way  refreshed  and 
thankful. 

The  old  servitor  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and  seemed 
reluctant  to  be  the  bearer  of  such  a  message  to  his  mistress, 
who  he,  perhaps,  foresaw  with  the  preciseness  of  aged  affec- 
tion, might  be  endangered  in  consequence.  But  the  Lady 
Alice  had  heard  something  of  what  was  passing  without,  and 
while  the  old  man  was  hesitating,  opened  the  parlor  door 
and  made  her  appearance  in  the  hall,  inquiring  what  was 
the  matter,  and  who  were  the  visitors  at  so  late  an  hour. 

She  was  a  very  aged  woman,  with  the  still  abundant  tresses 
of  her  snow-white  hair  braided  plainly  across  her  brows,  be- 
neath her  stiffly-starched  muslin  cap.  Her  face,  however,  still 
retained  traces  of  uncommon  former  beauty,  and  the  bene- 
volence, tranquillity,  and  serene  mildness  which  beamed  from 
every  lineament,  rendered  her  face  still  singularly  pleasant  and 
attractive.  Her  figure,  which  was  tall  and  slender,  was  still 
full  of  grace,  and  her  every  movement  was  made  with  that 
easy  elegance  which  is  perhaps  the  most  distinctive  proof  of  a 
high  and  gentle  education,  and  which  we  never  fail  to  attri- 
bute to  the  consciousness  of  good  birth  and  breeding,  and  to 
the  influence  of  a  mind  at  ease  with  itself  and  at  peace  with 
others. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  gentle,  and  though  she  spoke  half 
reproachfully  to  the  old  servant  for  his  churlishness  and  want 
of  charity  in  hesitating  to  admit  men  in  such  weary  plight 
and  peril,  the  softness  of  her  tones  and  the  quietude  of  her 
manner  made  her  words  seem  anything  rather  than  a  cen- 
sure. 

A  change  of  raiment  was  speedily  supplied  to  the  fugitives, 
with   one  of  whom,   Nelthorpe,  she  was  personally,  though 


368  persons  J^fjy  pictures. 

slightly  acquainted,  while  the  other  she  knew  by  reputation 
only,  and  that,  perhaps,  not  too  favorably,  as  a  very  zealous, 
somewhat  intolerant,  and  confessedly  rather  turbulent  dissent- 
ing minister. 

The  Lady  Alice  was  herself  a  sincere  loyalist,  and  a  devout 
and  devoted  member  of  the  church  of  England,  though  it  had 
been  her  lot  in  early  life  to  be  mated  with  an  independent  and 
a  regicide,  whose  errors,  whose  crimes,  and  whose  untimely 
death  had  steeped  her  life  in  sorrow,  and  blanched  her  dark 
hair  immaturely,  though  it  had  failed  to  cloud  the  calm  and 
religious  serenity  of  her  composed  and  gentle  spirit.  Still, 
neither  in  the  political  nor  the  religious  creed  of  the  Lady  Alice, 
was  there  one  touch  of  intolerance ;  and  so  full  was  her  heart 
of  that  truly  feminine  chivalry,  of  that  almost  maternal  sense 
of  hospitable  duty  which  ever  prompts  woman  to  defend  and 
protect  the  helpless,  that  it  is  probable  that,  as  Nelthorpe  said, 
had  her  worst  enemies,  nay,  the  very  assassins  of  her  husband, 
stood  in  her  threshold  claiming  protection  from  the  avenger  of 
the  blood,  hard  on  the  traces,  she  would  have  granted  it,  woman- 
ly pity  conquering  human  resentment,  and  the  sense  of  duty 
prevailing  over  all  fear  of  consequences. 

Thus,  though  she  did  not  greatly  admire  or  respect  the 
character  of  her  nocturnal  visitants,  and  perhaps  half-suspected 
the  reasons  of  their  desperate  position,  she  never  thought  for 
one  moment  of  denying  them  asylum  against  their  pursuers. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  reflect  on  the  consequences  to  herself;  per- 
haps she  believed  that  her  character,  her  well-known  loyalty 
and  admitted  service  to  the  cause  of  the  cavaliers,  when  that 
cause  was  at  the  lowest,  would  protect  her,  should  her  deed  of 
mercy  be  discovered  :  but  had  she  been  fully  aware  of  all  that 
was  to  follow,  certain  it  is  that  in  no  respect  would  her  conduct 
have  been  altered. 


THE    LADY    ALICE    LISLE.  369 

■  So  soon  as  they  were  drily  and  comfortably  clad,  meat  and 
wine  were  set  before  them,  and  when  they  were  thoroughly 
warmed  and  recruited,  as  they  still  persisted  in  declaring  them- 
selves in  mortal  peril  of  pursuit,  although  when  they  would 
have  entered  into  particular  details,  the  lady  resolutely  refused 
to  listen ;  when  the  time  for  retiring  had  arrived,  they  were 
conducted  to  such  hiding  places  as  the  old  house  afforded — 
Hicks  to  a  secret  chamber  within  the  thickness  of  the  wall, 
having  its  entrance  from  the  back  of  a  fire-place  in  one  of  the 
upper  rooms,  and  ISTelthorpe  to  an  inner  arched  recess  of  the 
malt-house,  the  mouth  of  which  was  in  part  concealed  by  a 
pile  of  grain  heaped  against  it ;  and  here,  with  good  store  of 
mattresses  and  bedding,  they  were  left  to  enjoy  the  delight  of 
sound  and  secure  slumbers,  after  four  and  twenty  hours  of  un- 
interrupted toil  and  terror. 

So  soundly  did  they  sleep,  and  till  so  late  an  hour,  that  the 
sun  was  near  the  meridian,  and  neither  of  them  had  yet  made 
his  appearance,  the  lady  respecting  their  fatigue,  and  forbid- 
ding that  they  should  be  aroused  ;  when  suddenly  sounds  were 
heard,  which  made  them  start  in  terror  from  their  couches. 
The  long  blast  of  a  cavalry  trumpet  was  succeeded  by  the  tram- 
pling of  a  troop  of  horse,  and  a  loud  and  simultaneous  knocking 
at  all  the  doors  of  the  house,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  force 
of  dismounted  troopers  with  carbines  in  their  hands,  their 
officers  demanding  admittance  in  the  king's  name,  which,  as 
it  could  not  be  resisted,  was  immediately,  if  not  cordially 
accorded. 

The  garments  of  the  fugitives,  which  were  still  drying  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  were  instantly  discovered  and  identified  as  those 
of  Nelthorpe  and  Hicks,  both  of  whom,  as  the  lady  now  learn- 
ed, positively,  for  the  first  time,  had  borne  arms  against  the 
king  at  Sedgemoor,  and  being  proclaimed  traitors,  she  was 

11 


370  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

herself  liable  to  the  pains  and  penalties  of  high  treason,  for 
harboring  and  secreting  them.  '  A  vigorous  search  followed, 
and  as  the  general  character  of  such  hiding  places,  in  the  old 
halls  and  manor  houses  of  that  day,  had  become  almost  uni- 
versally known  during  the  late  civil  wars,  in  the  course  of 
which  many  of  the  cavaliers  had  found  protection  in  them 
from  their  puritan  pursuers,  it  was  not  long  before  Hicks  and 
Nelthorpe  were  both  discovered  and  made  prisoners,  and  the 
Lady  Alice  herself  was  commanded  to  hold  herself  as  attached 
for  high  treason,  and  to  prepare  for  immediate  removal  to  the 
county  town,  where  an  extraordinary  circuit  was  about  to  be 
held  for  the  effectual  suppression  of  the  rebellion,  and  the 
extirpation  of  the  rebels.  It  was  only  as  an  especial  favor  that 
the  aged  lady  was  permitted  the  use  of  her  own  carriage  to 
convey  her  to  the  prison,  in  which  she  was  immured  like  a 
common  felon,  to  wait  the  arrival  of  the  infamous  Jefferies, 
who  was  already  appointed  to  hold  the  circuit,  known  after- 
wards as  the  Bloody  Assizes,  by  the  cold-blooded  and  barbarous 
tyrant,  the  worst  man  and  most  atrocious  king  w7ho  ever  sat 
upon  the  throne  of  England. 

It  may  well  be  said  that  her  fate  was  decided  before  she 
was  brought  to  trial,  for,  although  it  was  proved  beyond  ques- 
tion that  the  venerable  lady — who  pleaded  her  own  cause,  unaid- 
ed by  counsel,  confronting  the  insolent  and  shameful  abuse  and 
ravings  of  Jefferies  with  meek  and  calm  self-confidence — was 
not  even  aware  that  the  battle  of  Sedgemoor  had  been  fought 
on  any  grounds  beyond  mere  popular  rumor ;  much  less  that 
either  of  the  prisoners  had  borne  arms  in  that  affair ;  though 
she  had  sent  her  own  son  to  support  the  royal  cause,  and  fight 
against  the  very  rebels  she  was  now  accused  of  harboring ; 
though  it  had  not  been  proved  in  any  court  that  the  men  she 
now  arraigned  for  sheltering  were  actually  traitors ;  though 


THE    LADY    ALICE    LISLE.  3*71 

the  jury  twice  presented  favorable  verdicts,  they  were  sent 
back  with  roars  and  bellowings  of  almost  frantical  abuse  by 
the  monster  Jefferies,  who  called  them  knaves  and  villains,  brow- 
beat the  witness  with  foul-mouthed  vituperation,  and  claimed 
the  conviction  of  the  prisoner,  on  the  ground  that  her  husband 
had  officiated  as  one  of  the  regicide  judges — a  fact  not  proved 
in  court,  and  irrelevant,  had  it  been  proved — until  at  length 
driven  to  their  wits'  ends,  half  crazed,  and  wholly  terrified  by 
the  furious  and  appalling  menaces  of  the  chief  justice,  they  at 
length  brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty,  though  coupled  with  the 
strongest  recommendation  to  mercy.  Utterly  disregarding  this 
recommendation,  the  monster  sentenced  her  at  once  to  be 
burned  alive  on  the  following  day,  and  it  was  only  by  the 
strong  remonstrances  of  all  the  clergy,  and  especially  of  the 
bishop  of  Salisbury,  a  most  loyal  prelate,  who  had  lent  his  own 
carriage  horses  to  draw  the  royal  artillery  to  Sedgemoor,  that 
he  was  compelled  to  renounce  his  determination  of  putting  her 
— an  aged  and  most  venerable  woman,  of  the  most  blameless 
life,  and  now  convicted  only  for  one  of  those  acts  of  womanish 
mercy,  for  which,  in  the  darkest  of  the  middle  ages,  and  in  the 
first  strife  of  the  bloodiest  civil  wars,  no  woman  had  ever  been 
capitally  punished — to  a  death  the  most  horrible,  without 
allowing  an  appeal  to  the  mercy,  if  not  to  the  justice  of  the 
king. 

The  appeal  was  made — intercession,  entreaties  of  the  strong- 
v  est,  solicitations"^  the  most  urgent,  were  offered,  but  the  savage 
and  cowardly  bigot  was,  as  ever,  merciless — the  only  mercy  he 
would  grant  was  the  commutation  of  her  punishment  from  the 
stake  and  fagots  to  the  block  and  axe — for  he  had  promised 
Jefferies,  he  said,  that  he  would  not  pardon. 

So,  in  the  clearness  of  her  innocence,  conscious  of  her  justifi- 
cation on  high,  she  bowed  her  grey  head  dauntlessly  to  the 


372  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

block,  and  died  indeed  a  heroine,  and  little  less  than  a  saint 
and  martyr,  on  the  very  same  day  on  which  Elizabeth  Garnet, 
an  ancient  matron  of  the  anabaptist  persuasion,  was  actually 
burned  to  death,  almost  under  the  eyes  of  the  ruthless  James, 
for  a  like  offence,  at  Smithfield.  They  were  the  first  women, 
it  is  believed,  that  ever  suffered  in  England  for  any  similar 
offence — they  are  the  last  who  have  been  capitally  punished 
therein  for  any  political  crime,  and  the  last  they  will  be  for  ever. 
Their  fame  grows  brighter  and  their  memories  dearer,  every 
day,  while  that  of  the  murderer  becomes  blacker  hourly,  as 
fresh  investigations  bring  forth  fresh  proofs  of  his  utter  infamy. 
It  is  something  to  know  that  he  was  punished,  even  in  this 
world,  as  few  men  ever  have  been  punished — that  he  was 
deserted,  at  his  utmost  need,  by  his  own  children,  and  that  he 
died  the  most  abject  of  things — not  of  men — a  pauper  king, 
subsisting  on  the  charity  of  his  own  country's  foes. 


lita-ra-ttiB-lok; 


THE  DAYS  OF  JAMES  II. 


1687. 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE; 

THE  DAYS  OF  JAMES  II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  has  beea  gravely  stated  by  an  Italian  writer  of  celebrity, 
that  "  the  very  atrocity  of  the  crimes  which  are  therein  com- 
mitted, proves  that  in  Italy  the  growth  of  man  is  stronger  and 
more  vigorous,  and  nearer  to  the  perfect  standard  of  manhood 
than  in  any  other  country." 

A  strange  paradox,  truly,  but  not  uningenious — at  least 
for  a  native  of  that  "  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life," 
who  would  work  out  of  the  very  reproach,  an  argument  of  honor 
to  his  country.  If  it  be  true,  however,  that  proneness  to  the 
commission  of  unwonted  and  atrocious  crime  is  to  be  held  a 
token  of  extraordinary  vigor — vigor  of  nerve,  of  temperament, 
of  passion,  of  physical  development — in  a  race  of  men,  then 
surely  must  the  Anglo-Norman  breed,  under  all  circumstances 
of  time,  place,  and  climate,  be  singularly  destitute  of  all  those 
qualities — nay,  singularly  frail,  effeminate,  and  incomplete. 

For  it  is  an  undoubted  fact,  both  of  the  past  and  present  his- 
tory of  that  great  and  still  increasing  race,  whether  limited  to 
.the  narrow  bounds  of  the  island  realm  which  gave  it  being,  or 


376  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

extended  to  the  boundless  breadth  of  isles,  and  continents,  and 
oceans,  which  it  has  rilled  with  its  arms,  its  arts,  its  industry,  its 
language — it  is,  I  say,  an  undoubted  fact,  that  those  dreadful  and 
sanguinary  crimes,  forming  a  class  apart  and  distinct  of  them- 
selves, engendered  for  the  most  part  by  morbid  passions,  love, 
lust,  jealousy,  and  revenge,  which  are  of  daily  occurrence  in  the 
southern  countries  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  America,  are  almost 
unknown  in  those  happier  lands,  where  English  laws  prevail, 
with  English  liberty  and  language. 

It  is  to  this  that  must  be  ascribed  the  fact,  that,  in  the  very 
few  instances  where  crimes  of  this  nature  have  occurred  in  Eng- 
land or  America,  the  memory  of  them  is  preserved  with  singular 
pertinacity,  the  smallest  details  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  the  very  spots  in  which  they  have  occurred, 
how  much  soever  altered  or  improved  in  the  course  of  ages, 
haunted,  as  if  by  an  actual  presence,  by  the  horror  and  the 
scent  of  blood ;  while  on  the  other  hand  the  fame  of  ordinary 
deeds  of  violence  and  rapine  seems  almost  to  be  lost  before  the 
lives  of  the  ^perpetrators  are  run  out. 

One,  and  almost,  I  believe,  a  singular  instance  of  this  kind — 
fori  would  not  dignify  the  brawls  and  assassinations  which  have 
disgraced  some  of  our  southern  cities,  the  offspring  of  low  prin- 
ciples and  an  unregulated  society,  by  comparing  them  to  the 
class  of  crimes  is  question,  which  imply  even  in  their  atrocity  a 
something  of  perverted  honor,  of  extravagant  affection,  or  at 
least  of  not  ignoble  passion — is  the  well-known  Beauchamp 
tragedy  of  Kentucky,  a  tale  of  sin  and  horror  which  has  afforded 
a  theme  to  the  pens  of  several  distinguished  writers,  and  the 
details  of  which  are  as  well  known  on  the  spot  at  present,  as  if 
years  had  not  elapsed  since  its  occurrence.  And  tbis,  too,  in  a 
country  prone  above  all  others,  from  the  migratory  habits  of  its 
population,  to  cast  aside  all  tradition,  and  to  lose  within  a  very 


DITT0N-1N-THE-DALE.  Sll 

few  years  tlie  memory  of  the  greatest  and  most  illustrious  events 
upon  the  very  stage  of  their  occurrence. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  wonderful  that  in  England,  where  the 
immobility  of  the  population,  the  reverence  for  antiquity,  and 
the  great  prevalence  of  oral  tradition,  induced  probably  at  first 
by  the  want  of  letters,  cause  the  memory  of  even  past  trifles  to 
dwell  for  ages  in  the  breasts  of  the  simple  and  moral  people,  any 
deed  of  romantic  character,  any  act  of  unusual  atrocity,  any 
crime  prompted  by  unusual  or  extraordinary  motives,  should 
become,  as  it  were,  part  and  parcel  of  the  place  wherein  it  was 
wrought ;  that  the  leaves  of  the  trees  should  whisper  it  to  the 
winds  of  evening ;  that  the  echoes  of  the  lonely  hills  should 
repeat  it ;  that  the  waters  should  sigh  a  burthen  to  its  strain ; 
and  that  the  very  night_should  assume  a  deeper  shadow,  a  more 
horrid  gloom,  from  the  awe  of  the  unforgotten  sin. 

I  knew  a  place  in  my  boyhood,  thus  haunted  by  the  memory 
of  strange  crime  ;•  and  whether  it  was  merely  the  terrible  ro- 
mance of  the  story,  or  the  wild  and  gloomy  character  of  the 
scenery  endowed  with  a  sort  of  natural  fitness  to  be  the  theatre 
of  terrible  events,  or  yet  again  the  union  of  the  two,  I  know 
not ;  but  it  produced  upon  my  mind  a  very  powerful  influence, 
amounting  to  a  species  of  fascination,  which  constantly  attracted 
me  to  the  spot,  although  when  there,  the  weight  of  the  tradi- 
tion and  the  awe  of  the  scene  produced  a  sense  of  actual  pain. 

The  place  to  which  I  allude  was  but  a  few  miles  distant  from 
the  celebrated  public  school,  at  which  I  passed  the  happiest 
days  of  a  not  uneventful  life,  and  was  within  an  easy  walk  of 
the  college  limits ;  so  that  when  I  had  attained  that  favored 
eminence,  known  as  the  sixth  form,  which  allows  its  happy  oc- 
cupants to  roam  the  country,  free  from  the  fear  of  masters,  pro- 
vided only  they  attend  at  appointed  hours,  it  was  my  frequent 
habit  to  stroll  away  from  the  noisy  plaving-fields  through  the 

11* 


378  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

green  hedgerow  lanes,  or  to  scull  my  wherry  over  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  silver  Thames,  towards  the  scene  of  dark  tradition ; 
and  there  to  lap  myself  in  thick-coming  fancies,  half  sad,  half 
sweet,  yet  terrible  withal,  and  in  their  very  terror  attractive, 
until  the  call  of  the  homeward  rooks,  and  the  lengthened 
shadows  of  the  tall  trees  on  the  green  sward,  would  warn  me 
that  I  too  must  hie  me  back  with  speed,  or  pay  the  penalty  of 
undue  delay. 

Now,  as  the  story  has  in  itself,  apart  from  the  extraneous 
interest  with  which  a  perfect  acquaintance  with  its  localities 
may  have  invested  it  in  my  eyes,  a  powerful  and  romantic  cha- 
racter ;  as  its  catastrophe  was  no  less  striking  than  un-English ; 
and  as  the  passions  which  gave  rise  to  it  were  at  once  the 
strongest  and  the  most  general — though  rarely  prevailing,  at 
least  among  us  Anglo-Normans,  to  so  fearful  an  extent — I  am 
led  to  hope  that  others  may  find  in  it  something  that  may 
enchain  their  attention  for  a  time,  though  it  may  not  affect 
them  as  it  has  me  with  an  influence,  unchanged  by  change  of 
scene,  unaltered  by  the  lapse  of  time,  which  alters  all  things. 

I  propose,  therefore,  to  relate  it,  as  I  heard  it  first  from  an 
old  superannuated  follower  of  the  family,  which,  owning  other 
though  not  fairer  demesnes  in  some  distant  county,  had  never 
more  used  Ditton-in-the-Dale  as  their  dwelling-place,  although 
.  well  nigh  two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  transaction  which 
had  scared  them  away  from  their  polluted  household  gods. 

But  first,  I  must  describe  briefly  the  characteristics  of  the 
scenery,  without  which  a  part  of  my  tale  would  be  hardly  com- 
prehensible, while  the  remarkable  effect  produced  by  the  coin- 
cidence, if  I  may  so  express  myself,  between  the  nature  of  the 
deed,  and  the  nature  of  the  place,  would  be  lost  entirely. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  I  must  premise  that  the  name  of 
Ditton-in-the-Dale  is  in  a  great  measure  a  misnomer,  as  the 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.    .  379 

house  and  estate  which  bear  that  name,  are  situated  on  what  a 
visiter  would  be  at  first  inclined  to  call  a  dead  level,  but  on  what 
is  in  truth  a  small  secondary  undulation,  or  hollow,  in  the 
broad,  flat  valley  through  which  the  father  of  the  English  rivers, 
the  royal-towered  Thames,  pursues,  as  Gray  sang, 

The  turf,  the  flowers,  the  shades  among,  — 

His  silver-winding  way. 

But  so  destitute  is  all  that  country  of  any  deep  or  well  defined 
valleys,  much  less  abrupt  glens  or  gorges,  that  any  hollow  con- 
taining a  tributary  stream,  which  invariably  meanders  in  slow 
and  sluggish  reaches  through  smooth,  green  meadow-land,  is 
dignified  with  the  name  of  dale,  or  valley.  The  country  is, 
however,  so  much  intersected  by  winding  lanes,  bordered  with 
high  straggling  white-thorn  hedges  full  of  tall  timber  trees,  is 
subdivided  into  so  many  small  fields,  all  inclosed  with  similar 
fences,  and  is  diversified  with  so  many  wroods  and  clumps  of 
forest  trees,  that  you  lose  sight  of  the  monotony  of  its  surface, 
in  consequence  of  the  variety  of  its  vegetation,  and  of  the  limited 
space  which  the  eye  can  comprehend  at  any  one  time.  „ 

The  lane  by  which  I  was  wont  to  reach  the  demesne  of  Ditton, 
partook  in  an  eminent  degree  of  this  character,  being  very 
narrow,  winding  about  continually  without  any  apparent  cause, 
almost  completely  embowered  by  the  tall  hawthorn  hedges,  and 
the  yet  taller  oaks  and  ashes  which  grew  along  their  lines, 
making,  when  in  full  verdure,  twilight  of  noon  itself,  and  com- 
manding no  view  whatever  of  the  country  through  which  it  ran, 
except  when  a  field-gate  or  cart-track  opened  into  it,  affording 
a  glimpse  of  a  lonely  meadow,  bounded,  perhaps,  by  a  deep 
wood-side. 

On  either  hand  of  this  lane  was  a  broad,  deep  ditch,  both  of 
them  quite  unlike  any  other  ditches  I  have  ever  seen.     Their 


380  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

banks  were  irregular ;  and  it  would  seem  evident  that  they  had 
not  been  dug  for  any  purposes  of  fencing  or  inclosure ;  and  I 
have  sometimes  imagined,  from  their  varying  width  and  depth — 
for  in  places  they  were  ten  feet  deep,  and  three  times  as  broad, 
and  at  others  but  a  foot  or  two  across,  and  containing  but  a  few 
inches  of  water — that  their  beds  had  been  hollowed  out  to  get 
marl  or  gravel  for  the  convenience  of  the  neighboring  cul" 
tivators. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  they  were  at  all  times  brimful  of  the  clear- 
est and  most  transparent  water  I  ever  remember  to  have  seen — 
never  turbid  even  after  the  heaviest  rains  ;  and  though  bordered 
by  water-flags,  and  tapestried  in  many  places  •  by  the  broad, 
round  leaves  of  the  white  and  yellow  water-lilies,  never  cor- 
rupted by  a  particle  of  floating  scum  or  green  duckweed. 

Whether  they  were  fed  by  secret  springs  I  know  not ;  or 
whether  they  communicated  by  sluices  or  side-drains  with  the 
neighboring  Thames ;  I  never  could  discover  any  current  or 
motion  in  their  still,  glassy  waters,  though  I  have  wandered  by 
their  banks  a  hundred  times,  watching  the  red-finned  roach  and 
silvery  dace  pursue  each  other  among  the  shadowy  lily  leaves — 
now  startling  a  fat  yellow  frog  from  the  marge,  and  following 
him  as  he  dived  through  the  limpid  blackness  to  the  very 
bottom — now  starting  in  my  own  turn,  as  a  big  water-rat  would 
swim  from  side  to  side,  and  vanish  in  some  hole  of  the  marly 
bank — and  now  endeavoring  to  catch  the  great  azure-bodied, 
gauze-winged  dragon-flies,  as  they  shot  to  and  fro  on  their 
poised  wings,  pursuing,  kites  of  the  insect  race,  some  of  the 
smaller  ephemera. 

It  was  those  quiet,  lucid  waters,  coupled  with  the  exceeding 
shadiness  of  the  trees,  and  its  very  unusual  solitude — I  have 
walked  it,  I  suppose,  from  end  to  end  at  least  a  hundred  times, 
and  I  never  remember  to  have  met  so  much  even  as  a  peasant 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  381 

returning  from  his  daily  labor,  or  a  country  maiden  tripping  to 
the  neighboring  town — that  gave  its  character,  and  I  will  add 
its  charm,  to  this  half  pastoral,  half  sylvan  lane.  For  nearly 
three  miles  it  ran  in  one  direction,  although,  as  I  have  said, 
with  many  devious  turns  and  seemingly  unnecessary  angles, 
and  through  that  length  it  did  not  pass  within  the  sound  of  one 
farm-yard,  or  the  sight  of  one  cottage  chimney.  But  to  make 
up  for  this,  of  which  it  was,  indeed,  a  consequence,  the  nightin- 
gales were  so  bold  and  familiar  that  they  might  be  heard  all 
day  long  filling  the  air  with  their  delicious  melodies,  not  waiting, 
as  in  more  frequented  spots,  the  approach  of  night,  whose  dull 
ear  to  charm  with  amorous  ravishment ;  nay,  I  have  seen  them 
perched  in  full  view  on  the  branches,  gazing  about  them  fearless 
with  their  full  black  eyes,  and  swelling  their  emulous  throats  in 
full  view  of  the  spectator. 

Three  miles  passed,  the  lane  takes  a  sudden  turn  to  the  north- 
ward, having  previously  run  for  the  most  part  east  and  west ; 
and  here,  in  the  inner  angle,  jutting  out  suddenly  from  a  dense 
thicket  of  hawthorns  and  hazels,  an  old  octagonal  summer- 
house,  with  a  roof  shaped  like  an  extinguisher,  projects  into  the 
ditch,  which  here  expands  into  a  little  pool  some  ten  or  twelve 
yards  over  in  every  direction,  and  perhaps  deeper  than  at  any 
other  point  of  its  course. 

Beyond  the  summer-house  there  is  a  little  esplanade  of  green 
turf,  faced  with  a  low  wall  towards  the  ditch,  allowing  the  eye 
to  run  down  a  long,  narrow  avenue  of  gigantic  elm-trees,  meet- 
ing at  the  top  in  the  perfect  semblance  of  a  Gothic  aisle,  and 
bordered  on  each  hand  by  hedges  of  yew,  six  feet  at  least  in 
height,  clipped  into  the  form  and  almost  into  the  solidity  of  a 
wall.  At  the  far  end  of  this  avenue,  which  must  be  nearly 
two-thirds  of  a  mile  in  length,  one  can  discern  a  glimpse  of  a 


382  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

formal  garden,  and  beyond  that,  of  some  portion  of  what  seems 
to  be  a  large  building  of  red  brick. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  esplanade  and  little  wall,  there  grows 
an  enormous  oak,  not  very  tall,  but  with  an  immense  girth  of 
trunk,  and  such  a  spread  of  branches  that  it  completely  over- 
shadows the  summer-house,  and  overhangs  the  whole  surface  of 
the  small  pool  in  front  of  it.  Thenceforth,  the  tall  and  tangled 
hedge  runs  on,  as  usual  denying  all  access  of  the  eye,  and  the 
deep,  clear  ditch  all  access  of  the  foot,  to  the  demesnes  within  ; 
until  at  the  distance  of  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  quarter,  a  little 
bridge  crosses  the  latter,  and  a  green  gate,  with  a  pretty  rustic 
lodge  beside  it,  gives  entrance  to  a  smooth  lawn,  with  a  gravel- 
road  running  across  it,  and  losing  itself  on  the  farther  side, 
in  a  thick  belt  of  woodland. 

It  is,  however,  with  the  summer-house  that  I  have  to  do  prin- 
cipally, for  it  is  to  it  that  the  terror  of  blood  has  clung  through 
the  lapse  of  years,  as  the  scent  of  the  Turkish  attar  is  said  to 
cling,  indestructible,  to  the  last  fragment  of  the  vessel  which 
had  once  contained  it. 

When  first  I  saw  that  small' lonely  pavilion,  I  had  heard  no-  ■ 
thing  of  the  strange  tradition  which  belonged  to  it,  yet  as  I 
looked  on  the  plastered  walls,  all  covered  with  spots  of  damp 
and  mildew,  on  the  roof  overrun  with  ivy,  in  masses  so  wildly 
luxuriant  as  almost  to  conceal  the  shape — on  the  windows,  one 
in  each  side  of  the  octagon,  closed  by  stout  jalousies,  which 
had  been  once  green  with  paint,  but  were  now  green  with  damp 
and  vegetable  mould,  a  strange  feeling,  half  of  curiosity  and 
half  of  terror,  came  over  me,  mixed  with  that  singular  fascina- 
tion of  which  I  have  spoken,  which  seemed  to  deny  me  any 
rest  until  I  should  have  searched  out  the  mystery — for  I  felt 
sure  that  mystery  there  was — connected  with  that  summer- 
house,  so  desolate  and  so  fast  lapsing  into  ruin,  while  the  hedges 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  383 

and  gardens  within  appeared  well  cared  for,  and  in  trim  cul- 
tivation. 

I  well  remember,  the  first  time  I  beheld  that  lonely  and  de- 
serted building.  It  was  near  sunset,  on  as  lovely  a  summer 
evening  as  ever  shed  its  soft  light  on  the  earth ;  the  air  was 
breathless ;  the  sky  cloudless ;  thousands  of  swallows  were 
upon  the  wing,  some  skimming  the  limpid  surface  of  those  old 
ditches,  others  gliding  on  balanced  pinions  so  far  aloft  in  the 
darkening  firmament  that  the  eye  could  barely  discern  them. 

The  nightingales  were  warbling  their  rich,  melancholy  notes 
from  every  brake  and  thicket ;  the  bats  had  come  forth,  and 
were  flitting  to  and  fro  on  their  leathern  wings  under  the  dark 
trees  ;  but  the  brilliant  dragon-flies  and  all  the  painted  tribe  of 
butterflies  had  vanished  already,  and  another  race,  the  insects 
of  the  night,  had  taken  their  places. 

The  rich  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay  loaded  the  air  with 
fragrance,  and  vied  with  the  odors  of  the  eglantine  and  honey- 
suckle, which,  increased  by  the  falling  dew,  steamed  up  like 
incense  to  the  evening  skies. 

I  was  alone,  and  thoughtful ;  for  the  time,  although  sweet 
and  delicious,  had  nothing  in  it  gay  or  joyous ;  the  lane  along 
which  I  was  strolling  was  steeped  in  the  fast  increasing  sha- 
dows, for  although  the  air  aloft  was  full  of  sunshine,  and  the 
topmost  leaves  of  the  tall  ashes  shimmered  like  gold  in  the 
late  rays,  not  a  single  beam  penetrated  the  thick  hedgerows,  or 
fell  upon  the  sandy  horse-road.  The  water  in  the  deep  ditches 
looked  as  black  as  night,  and  the  plunge  of  the  frogs  into  their 
cool  recesses  startled  the  ear  amid  the  solitude  and  stillness  of 
the  place. 

It  was  one  of  those  evenings,  in  a  word,  which  calls  up,  we 
know  not  why,  a  train  of  thought  not  altogether  sad,  nor  wholly 
tender,  but  calm  and  meditative  and  averse  to  action.     I  had 


384'  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

been  wandering  along  thus  for  nearly  an  hour,  musing  deeply 
all  the  while,  yet  perfectly  unconscious  that  I  was  musing,  much 
more  what  was  the  subject  of  my  meditations,  when  coming 
suddenly  to  the  turn  of  the  lane,  the  old  summer-house  met  my 
eyes,  and  almost  startled  me,  so  little  did  I  expect  in  that  place 
to  see  anything  that  should  recall  to  my  mind  the  dwellings 
or  the  vicinity  of  man. 

The  next  minute  I  began  to  scrutinize,  and  to  wonder — for  it 
was  evident  that  this  building  must  be  an  appendage  to  the 
estate  of  some  gentleman  or  person  of  degree,  and,  knowing  all 
the  families  of  note  in  that  neighborhood,  I  was  well  assured 
that  no  one  dwelt  here  of  sufficient  position  to  be  the  owner  of 
what  appeared  at  first  sight  to  be  a  noble  property. 

Anxious  as  I  was,  however,  to  effect  my  entrance  into  that 
enchanted  ground,  I  could  discover  no  means  of  doing  so  ;  for 
the  depth  of  the  water  effectually  cut  off  all  access  to  the 
hedgerow  banks,  even  if  there  had  been  any  prospect  of  forcing 
a  passage  through  the  tangled  thorn-bushes  beyond.  Before  I 
could  find  any  solution  to  my  problem,  the  fast  thickening 
shadows  admonished  me  that  I  must  beat  my  retreat ;  and  it 
was  only  by  dint  of  redoubled  speed  that  I  reached  college  in 
time  to  escape  the  consequences  of  absence  from  roll-call. 

An  early  hour  of  the  evening  found  me  at  my  post  on  the 
following  day  ;  for  having  a  direct  object  now  in  view,  I  wasted 
no  time  on  the  road,  and  the  sun  was  still  some  distance  above 
the  horizon  when  I  reached  the  summer-house. 

It  had  been  my  hope,  as  I  went  along,  that  I  might  find 
some  shallow  spot,  with  a  corresponding  gap  in  the  hedge,  be- 
fore reaching  the  place,  by  means  of  which  I  might  turn  the 
defences,  and  take  the  enemy  in  the  rear ;  but  it  was  all  in  vain  ; 
and  I  came  upon  the  ground  without  discovering  any  opening 


DITTO  N-IN-THE-D  ALE.  385 

by  which  an  animal  larger  than  a  rat  could  enter  the  forbidden 
ground. 

Difficulty,  it  is  well  known,  heightens  desire ;  and,  if  I  wished 
before,  I  was  now  determined  that  I  would  get  in.  Quickening 
my  pace,  I  set  off  at  a  smart  run  to  reconnoitre  the  defences 
beyond,  but  having  found  nothing  that  favored  my  plans  in 
some  half  mile  or  so,  I  again  returned,  now  bent  on  forcing  my 
way,  even  if  I  should  be  compelled  to  undress,  and  swim  across 
the  pool  to  the  further  side. 

Before  having  recourse  to  this  last  step,  however,  I  recon- 
noitred my  ground  somewhat  more  narrowly  than  before,  and 
soon  discovered  that  one  of  the  main  limbs  of  the  great  oak 
shot  quite  across  the  pool,  and  extended  some  little  distance  on 
my  side  over  terra  firma. 

It  is  true  that  the  nearer  extremity  of  the  branch  was  rather 
of  the  slenderest,  to  support  the  weight  even  of  a  boy,  and  that 
the  lowest  point  was  a  foot  or  two  above  my  head.  But  what 
of  that  ?  I  was  young  and  active  in  those  days,  and  somewhat 
bold  withal ;  and  without  a  spice  of  danger,  where  were  the 
pleasure  or  excitement  of  adventure  ? 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  make  up  my  mind,  and  before  I 
had  wrell  thought  of  the  risk,  I  had  swung  myself  up  into  the 
branches,  and  was  creeping,  with  even  less  difficulty  than  I  had 
anticipated,  along  the  great  gnarled  bough  above  the  mirrored  pool. 

Danger,  in  fact,  there  was  none  ;  for  slender  as  the  extremi- 
ties appeared,  they  were  tough  English  oak ;  and  the  parent 
branch  once  gained,  would  have  supported  the  weight  of  Qtus 
and  Ephialtes,  and  all  their  giant  crew,  much  more  of  one  slight 
Etonian. 

In  five  minutes,  or  less,  I  had  reached  the  fork  of  the  trunk, 
and,  swrarming  down  on  the  further  side,  stood  in  the  full  frui 
tion  of  my  hopes,  on  that  enchanted  ground. 


386  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

It  was,  as  I  had  expected  to  find  it,  a  singular  and  gloomy 
spot ;  the  tall  elm  trees  which  formed  the  avenue,  and  the 
black  wall  of  clipped  yew  which  followed  their  course,  di- 
verging to  the  right  and  left,  formed  a  semicircle,  the  chord 
of  which  was  the  low  wall  and  hawthorn  hedge,  the  sum- 
mer-house standing,  as  I  entered,  in  the  angle  on  my  left 
hand. 

Although,  as  I  have  said,  the  sun  was  still  high  in  heaven, 
the  little  area  was  almost  dark  already  ;  and  it  was  difficult,  in- 
deed, to  conjecture  for  what  end  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors 
had  planted  a  sun-dial  in  the  centre  of  the  grass-plat,  where  it 
seemed  physically  impossible  that  a  chance  sunbeam  should 
ever  strike  it,  to  tell  the  hour. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  narrow  open  space  between  the  oak 
tree  and  the  summer  house,  the  little  lawn  would  even  now 
have  been  as  black  as  night ;  as  it  was,  a  sort  of  misty-grey 
twilight,  increased,  perhaps,  by  the  thin  vapors  rising  from  the 
tranquil  pool,  filled  all  its  precincts  ;  and  beyond  these,  stretch- 
ing away  in  long  perspective  until  the  arch  at  the  further  end 
seemed  dwindled  to  the  size  of  a  needle's  eye,  was  the  long  aisle 
of  gloomy  foliage,  as  massive  and  impenetrable  to  any  ray  of 
light  as  the  stone  arches  of  a  Gothic  cloister. 
||  The  only  thing  that  conveyed  an  idea  of  gaiety  or  life  to 
the  cold  and  tomb-like  scenery,  was  the  glimpse  of  bright  sun- 
shine which  lay  on  the  open  garden  at  the  extremity  of  the 
elm-walk,  with  the  gaudy  and  glowing  hues,  indistinctly  seen 
in  the  distance,  of  some  summer  flowers. 

Yet  even  this  was  not  all  unmixed  with  something  of  me- 
lancholy, for  the  contrast  of  the  gay  sunbeams  and  bright 
flowers  only  rendered  the  gloom  more  apparent,  and  like  a  con- 
vent-garden, seemed  to  awaken  cravings  after  the  joyous  world 
without,  diminishing  nothing  of  the  sorrow  and  monotony  within. 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALK  387 

But  I  was  not  in  those  days  much  given  to  moralizing,  or  to 
the  investigation  of  my  own  inward  feelings. 

I  had  come  thither  to  inquire,  to  see,  to  learn,  to  find  out 
things — not  causes.  And  perceiving  at  one  glance  that  my 
first  impression  was  correct,  that  the  grass-plots  were  recently 
mown,  the  gravel-walks  newly  rolled  and  spotless  of  weeds,  the 
tall  yew  hedges  assiduously  clipped  into  the  straightest  and 
most  formal  lines ;  that  everything,  in  short,  displayed  the 
most  heedful  tendance,  the  neatest  cultivation,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  summer-pavilion,  which  evidently  was  devoted  to 
decay,  I  became  but  the  more  satisfied  that  there  was  some 
mystery,  and  the  more  resolute  to  probe  it  to  the  core. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  when  that  garden  was  laid  out,  and 
that  avenue  planted,  how  many  years  ago  the  giant  size  of  the 
old  elms  denoted,  the  summer-house  was  the  meaning  of  the 
whole  design.  The  avenue  had  no  object  but  to  lead  to  it,  the 
little  lawn  no  purpose  but  to  receive  it.  Doubly  strange,  there- 
fore, did  it  seem  that  these  should  b'e  kept  up  in  all  their  trim- 
ness — that  suffered  to  fall  into  decay. 

It  was  the  tragedy,  of  Hamlet,  with  Hamlet's  part  omitted ! 

I  stood  for  a  little  while  wondering,  and  half  overcome  by  a 
sort  of  indescribable  fanciful  superstition.  A  cloud  had  come 
over  the  sun,  the  nightingales  had  ceased  to  sing,  and  there 
was  not  a  sound  of  any  kind  to  be  heard,  except  the  melancholy 
murmur  of  the  summer  air  in  the  tree-tops. 

In  a  moment,  however,  the  transitory  spell  was  shaken  off", 
and,  once  more  the  bold  and  reckless  schoolboy,  I  turned  to  the 
performance  of  my  self-imposed  task. 

The  summer-house,  as  I  have  said,  was  octagon,  three  of  its 
sides,  with  a  window  in  each,  jutting  out  into  the  clear  pool, 
and  three,  with  a  door  in  the  centre,  and  a  window  •  on  each 
side,  fronting  the  little  lawn.     But,  alas  !  the  windows  were  all 


388  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

secured  with  jalousies,  strongly  bolted  and  barred  from  within, 
and  the  door  was  secured  by  a  lock,  the  key  of  which  was 
absent. 

A  short  examination  showed,  however,  that  the  door  was 
held  by  no  bolts  at  the  top  or  bottom  ;  and  the  rusty  condition 
of  both  lock  and  hinges  rendered  it  probable  that  it  would  not 
stand  a  very  violent  assault. 

"Wherefore,  retreating  some  twenty  paces,  I  ran  at  it  more 
Utoncnsi,  at  the  top  of  my  speed,  planted  the  sole  of  my  foot 
even  and  square  against  the  key-hole,  with  the  whole  impetus 
of  my  charge,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  the  door  fly 
open  in  an  instant,  while  a  jingling  clatter  within  showed 
that  my  entrance  had  been  effected  with  no  greater  damage 
to  the  premises  than  the  starting  of  the  staple  into  which  the 
bolt  of  the  lock  shot. 

Having  entered  thus,  my  first  task  was  to  repair  damages, 
which  was  effected  in  five  minutes,  by  driving  the  staple  into 
its  old  place  by  aid  of  a  great  stone ;  my  second,  to  provide 
means  for  future  visits,  which  was  as  speedily  managed  by 
driving  back  the  bolt  of  the  lock  with  the  same  great  stone  ; 
and  my  third,  to  look  eagerly  and  curiously  about  me.  To  do 
this  more  effectually,  I  soon  opened  the  twTo  windows  looking 
upon  the  lawn,  and  let  in  the  light,  for  the  first  time,  I 
fancy,  in  many  a  year,  to  that  deserted  room. 

If  I  had  marvelled  much  before  I  entered,  much  more  did 
I  marvel  now ;  for  although  everything  within  showed  marks 
of  the  utmost  negligence  and  decay,  though  spiders  had 
woven  their  webs  in  every  angle,  though  mildew  and  damp 
mould  had  defaced  the  painted  walls,  though  the  gilding  was 
black  and  tarnished,  though  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  fur- 
niture, still  I  had  never  seen  anything  in  my  life,  except  the 
state-rooms  at    Hampton  Court  and  Windsor^  Castle,  which 


DITTO  N-IN-THE-D  ALE.  389 

could  have  vied  with  this  pavilion  in  the  splendor  of  its  ori- 
ginal decoration. 

Its  area  was  about  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  and  in  height 
nearly  the  same,  with  a  domed  roof,  richly  fretted  with  what 
had  once  been  golden  scroll-work  upon  an  azure  ground. 
The  walls  were  painted,  as  even  /  could  discover,  by  the 
hand  of  a  master,  with  copies  from  Guido  and  Caracci,  in 
compartments  bordered  with  massive  gilded  scroll-work,  the 
ground  between  the  panels  having  been  originally,  like  the 
ceiling,  of  bright  azure.  The  window-frames  had  been  gilded  ; 
and  the  inside  of  the  door  painted,  like  the  walls,  in  azure, 
with  pictures  of  high  merit  in  the  panels.  Every  side  of  the 
octagon  but  two,  the  opposite  walls  to  the  right  and  left, 
was  occupied  by  windows  or  a  door ;  but  that  to  the  right 
was  filled  by  a  mantel-piece,  exquisitely  wrought  with  Carya- 
tides in  white  Carrara  marble,  with  a  copy  of  the  Aurora  above 
it,  while  the  space  opposite  to  it  had  been  occupied  by  a 
superb  mirror,  reaching  from  the  cornice  of  the  ceiling. 

Nearly  in  the  centre  of  this  mirror,  however,  there  was  a 
small  circular  fracture,  as  if  made  by  a  stone  or  bullet,  with 
long  cracks  radiating,  like  the  beams  of  a  star,  in  all  directions 
over  the  shivered  plate  :  and  when  I  looked  at  it  more  closely, 
I  observed  that  it  was  dashed  in  many  places  with  large  drops 
of  some  dark  purple  fluid,  which  had  hardened  with  time  into 
compact  and  solid  gouts. 

I  thought  little  of  this  at  the  time,  and  only  wondered  why 
people  could  be  so  mad  as  to  abandon  so  beautiful  a  place ; 
and  why,  since  they  had  abandoned  it,  they  did  not  remove 
the  furniture,  of  which  even  a  boy's  eye  could  detect  the 
value. 

There  was  a  centre-table  of  circular  form,  the  pedestal  of 
which,  curiously  carved,  had  been  wrought,  like  all  the  rest, 


390  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

in  gold  and  azure,  while  the  slat,  when  I  had  wiped  away 
with  some  fresh  green  leaves  the  thick  layer  of  dust  which 
covered  it,  positively  astonished  my  eyes,  by  the  delicacy  and 
beauty  of  the  designs  with  which  it  was  adorned.  Besides 
this,  there  were  divans  and  arm-chairs  of  the  same  fashion  and 
colors,  with  cushions  which  had  been  once  of  sky-blue  damask, 
though  their  brilliancy,  and  even  their  hues,  had  long  been 
defaced  by  the  dust,  the  dampness,  and  the  squalor  of  that  ne- 
glected place. 

I  should  have  mentioned,  that  on  the  beautiful  table  I  dis- 
covered gouts  of  tb,g  same  dark  substance  which  I  had  pre- 
viously observed  on  the  broken  mirror ;  and  that  there  were 
still  clearly  perceptible  on  one  of  the  divans,  dark  splashes,  and 
what  must,  when  fluid,  have  been  almost  a  pool  of  the  same 
deep,  rusty  hue. 

At  the  time,  it  is  true,  I  paid  little  attention  to  these  things, 
being  busily  employed  in  the  boy-like  idea  of  putting  my 
newly  discovered  palace  of  Armida  into  a  complete  state  of 
repair,  and  coming  to  pass  all  my  leisure  moments,  even  to  the 
studying  my  Prometheus  Bound,  and  composing  my  weekly 
hexameters  and  Alcaics,  in  this  sweet  sequestered  spot. 

And,  in  truth,  within  a  week  I  had  put  the  greater  part  of 
my  plan  into  execution ;  purloined  dusters  from  my  dame's 
boarding-house,  green  boughs  of  the  old  elms  for  brooms,  and 
water  from  the  ditch,  soon  made  things  clean  at  least;  and  the 
air,  which  I  suffered  so  long  as  I  was  there,  daily  to  blow 
through  it  in  all  directions,  soon  rendered  it,  comparatively 
speaking,  dry  and  comfortable  ;  and  when  all  its  windows 
were  thrown  wide,  it  would  be  scarcely  possible  to  find  a  more 
lightsome  or  delicious  spot  for  summer  musing  than  that  old 
English  summer-house. 

.Thus  things  went  on  for  weeks — for  months — unsuspected ; 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  391 

for  1  always  latched  the  door,  and  secured  the  windows  from 
within,  before  leaving  my  fairy  palace  for  the  night ;  and  as  all 
looked  just  as  usual  without,  no  one  so  much  as  dreamed  of 
trying  the  lock,  to  ascertain  if  a  door  were  still  fastened,  the 
threshold  of  which,  as  men  believed,  no  human  foot  had 
crossed  since  the  days  of  the  second  James. 

I  could  often,  it  is  true,  discover  the  traces  of  recent  labor 
in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  my  discovery  ;  I  could 
perceive  at  a  glance  where  the  grass  had  been  newly  shorn, 
the  yew  hedges  clipped,  or  the  gravel -walks  rolled,  but  never, 
in  the  course  of  several  months,  during  which  I  spent  every 
fine  evening,  either  reading,  or  musing,  or  composing  my  boy 
verses,  in  that  my  enchanted  castle — for  I  began  really  to 
consider  it  almost  my  own — did  I  see  any  human  being  on  the 
premises. 

The  cause  of  this,  which  I  did  not  suspect  until  it  was  re- 
vealed to  me,  after  chance  had  discovered  my  visits  to  the 
place,  was  simply  this,  that  my  intrusions  were  confined  solely 
to  the  evening ;  whereas,  so  great  was  the  awe  of  the  servants 
and  the  workmen  for  that  lonely  and  terror-haunted  spot,  that 
nothing  short  of  absolute  compulsion,  or  the  strongest  neces- 
sity, would  have  induced  them  to  go  near  the  place  after  the 
sun  had  turned  downwards  from  the  zenith. 

In  the  meantime,  gratified  by  the  complete  success  of  my 
first  inroad,  and  the  possession  of  my  first  discovery,  I  felt  no 
inclination  to  push  my  advances  further,  or  to  make  any  incur- 
sion into  the  body  of  the  place. 

Every  evening,  as  soon  as  I  could  escape  from  the  college 
walls,  I  was  at  my  post,  and  lingered  there  as  late  as  college 
hours  would  permit.  It  was  a  strange  fancy  in  a  boy,  and 
stranger  yet  than  would  at  first  appear  in  this,  that  there  was 
a  very  considerable  admixture  of  something  nearly  approaching 


392  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

to  fear,  and  that  of  a  painful  kind,  in  the  feeling  which  made 
me  so  assiduous  in  my  visits  to  that  old  pavilion. 

There  was,  it  is  true,  nothing  definite  in  my  fancies.  I  knew 
nothing — I  cannot  say  even  that  I  suspected  anything — con- 
cerning the  mysterious  closing  of  the  place ;  and  often,  since  I 
have  been  made  acquainted  with  the  tale,  I  have  marvelled  at 
my  own  obtuseness,  and  wondered  that  a  secret  so  transparent 
should  have  escaped  me. 

So  it  was,  however,  that  I  suspected  nothing,  although  I 
felt  sure  that  mystery  there  was ;  and  being  of  somewhat  an 
imaginative  temper,  I  used  to  amuse  myself  by  accounting  for 
it  in  my  own  mind,  weaving  all  sorts  of  strange  and  wild 
romances,  and  inventing  the  most  horrible  stories  that  can  be 
conceived,  until,  as  the  shadows  would  fall  dark  around  me, 
daunted  by  my  own  conceptions,  I  would  make  all  secure  and 
fast  with  trembling  fingers,  swing  myself  back  across  over  the 
pool  by  my  accustomed  oak-branch,  and  run  home  as  hard  as 
my  legs  could  carry  me,  haunted  by  indistinct  and  almost 
superstitious  horror. 

Thus  things  went  on,  until  at  the  end  of  summer  I  was  at 
last  detected  in  my  stolen  visits,  and  the  whole  mystery  was 
cleared  up. 

I  remember  as  clearly  as  if  I  heard  it  now,  the  exclamation 
of  terror  and  dismay  uttered  by  the  old  gardener,  who,  having 
left  some  implement  behind  him  on  the  lawn  during  the 
morning  labors,  had  been  forced  to  bend  his  unwilling  steps 
back  to  the  haunted  ground  to  recover  it. 

I  could  not  but  smile  afterwards,  when  he  recounted  to  me 
his  astonishment  and  terror  at  seeing  the  old  summer-house, 
which  never  had  been  opened  within  the  memory  of  man, 
with  all  its  windows  wide  to  the  free  air  and  evening  sunshine, 
when  he  told  me  how  often  he  turned  back  to  seek  aid  from 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  393 

his  fellows — how  he  almost  believed  that  fiends  or  evil  spirits 
were  holding  their  foul  sabbath  there,  and  how  he  started 
aghast  with  horror,  not  now  for  himself,  but  for  me,  as  he 
beheld  the  young  Etonian  stretched  tranquilly  upon  the  blood- 
stained couch — for  those  dark  stains  were  of  human  gore — 
conning  his  task  for  the  morrow. 

I  rushed  out  of  the  place  at  his  horrid  outcry  ;  a  few  words 
told  my  story,  and  pleaded  my  excuse — with  the  good,  simple- 
minded  rustic  little  excuse  was  needed — but  it  was  not  till 
after  many  sittings,  and  many  a  long  afternoon's  discourse, 
that  I  learned  all  the  details  of  the  sad  event  which  had  con- 
verted that  fair  pavilion  into  a  place  as  terrible  to  the  ideas  of 
the  country  folks  as  a  dark  charnel-vault. 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  gazed  fearfully  about 
him,  after  I  had  persuaded  him  at  length  to  cross  the  dreaded 
threshold,  "  Ay  !  it  is  all  as  they  tell,  though  not  a  man  of 
them  has  ever  seen  it.  There  is  the  glass  which  the  bullet 
broke,  after  passing  right  through  his  brain  ;  and  there  is  his 
blood  all  spattared  on  the  mirror.  And  look,  young  master, 
those  spots  on  the  table  came  from  her  heart ;  and  that  couch 
you  was  lying  on,  is  where  they  laid  her  when  they  took  her 
up.  See,  it's  all  dabbled  yet ;  and  where  your  head  was  rest- 
ing now,  the  dead  girl's  head  lay  more  than  a  hundred  years 
since  !  Come  away,  master !  come  away  !  I  never  thought  to 
have  looked  on  these  things,  though  I  know  all  about  them." 

"  Oh,  tell  me — tell  me  about  them  !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  I  am 
not  a  bit  afraid.     Do  tell  me  all  about  them." 

"  Not  now — not  now — nor  not  here,"  said  the  old  man, 
gazing  about  as  if  he  expected  to  see  a  spirit  stalk  out  of  some 
shady  nook  of  the  surrounding  trees.  "  I  would  not  tell  you 
here  to  be  master  of  all  Ditton-in-the-Dale !  But  come  up,  if 
you  will,  to  the  great  house  to-morrow,  and  ask  for  old  Mat- 

18 


394  PERSONS    AND  PICTURES. 

thew  Dawson,  and  I'll  show  you  all  the  place — the  family 
never  lives  here  now,  nor  hasn't  since  that  deed  was  done — 
and  then  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  if  you  must  hear.  But  if 
you're  wise,  you'll  shun  it ;  for  it  will  chill  your  young  blood 
to  listen,  and  cling  to  your  young  heart  with  a  gloom  for 
ever." 

"  Oh,  I  will  come,  be  sure,  Matthew  !  I  would  not  miss  it 
for  the  world.  But  it  is  getting  late,  so  I'll  fasten  up  the  old 
place  and  be  going ; "  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  I 
soon  secured  the  fastenings,  while  the  old  gardener  stood  by, 
marvelling  and  muttering  at  the  boldness  of  young  blood,  until 
I  had  finished  setting  things  in  order,  when  I  shook  hands 
with  the  old  man,  slipping  my  one  half-crown  into  his  horny 
palm,  and  saying, 

"  Well,  good-night,  Matthew  Dawson,  and  don't  forget  to- 
morrow evening." 

*  That  I  wo'nt,  master,"  he  replied,  greatly  propitiated  by  my 
offering.     "  But  which  way  are  you  going  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'll  soon  show  you,"  I  replied ;  and  swinging  myself  up 
my  tree,  I  was  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  haunted  ground 
almost  in  a  moment. 

"  The  very  way  he  came  the  time  he  did  it,"  cried  the  old 
gardener,  with  upturned  hands  and  eyes  aghast.  But  I  tar- 
ried then  to  ask  no  further  questions,  being  quite  sufficiently 
terrified  for  one  night ;  although  my  pride  forbade  my  display- 
ing my  terrors  to  the  old  rustic. 

The  next  day  I  was  punctual  to  my  appointment ;  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  I  heard  the  melancholy  tale  which,  at  length, 
I  purpose  to  relate. 

It  was  a  proud  and  noble  Norman  family  which  had  held 
the  demesnes  of  Ditton-in-the-Dale  since  the  reign  of  the  last 
Plantagenet ;  a  brave  and  loyal  race,  which  had  poured  its 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  395 

blood,  like  water,  on  many  a  foreign — many  a  native  battle- 
field. At  Evesham,  a  Fitz-Henry  had  fought  beside  Prince 
Edward's  bridle-rein,  against  the  great  De  Montfort  and  his 
confederate  barons ;  and  afterwards,  through  all  the  long  and 
cruel  wars  of  the  Roses,  on  every  field  a  Fitz-Henry  had  won 
honor  or  lost  blood,  upholding  the  claims  of  the  true  sovereign 
house — the  house  of  York — until  at  fatal  Bos  worth  the  house 
itself  went  down,  and  dragged  down  with  it  the  fortunes  of  its 
bold  supporters. 

Thereafter,  during  the  reign  of  the  Tudors,  the  name  of  Fitz- 
Henry  was  heard  rarely  in  the  court  or  on  the  field  ;  impo- 
verished in  fortune  by  fines  and  sequestrations,  suspected  of  dis- 
loyalty to  the  now  sovereign  house,  the  heads  of  the  family  had 
wisely  held  themselves  aloof  from  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  and 
dwelt  among  their  yeomen,  who  had  in  old  times  been  their 
fathers'  vassals,  staunch  lovers  of  field-sports,  true  English  coun- 
try gentlemen,  seeking  the  favor  and  fearing  the  ill-will  of  no 
man — no,  not  of  England's  king. 

Attached  to  the  old  religion,  tnough  neither  bigots  nor  zea- 
lots, they  had  escaped  the  violence  of  bluff  Harry,  when  he 
turned  protestant  for  Bullen's  eyes ;  and  had — though  something 
to  leeward  of  her  favor,  as  lukewarm  romanists  and  no  lovers 
of  the  Spaniard — passed  safely  through  the  ordeal  of  Mary's 
cruel  reign. 

But  with  the  accession  of  the  man-minded  Elizabeth,  the  for- 
tunes of  the  house  revived  for  a  while.  It  was  the  policy  of  that 
great  and  gracious  queen  to  gather  around  her  all  that  were 
brave,  honest,  and  manly  in  her  realm,  without  regard  to  family 
creeds  or  family  traditions.  Claiming  descent  as  much  from 
one  as  from  the  other  of  the  rival  houses  of  Lancaster  and  York, 
loyalty  to  the  one  was  no  more  offence  to  her  clear  eyes  than 
good  faith  to  the  other.     While  loyalty  to  what  he  honestly 


396  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

believed  to  be  trie  true  sovereign  house,  was  the  strongest  re- 
commendation to  her  favor  in  each  and  every  subject. 

The  Fitz-Henry,  therefore,  of  her  day — a  young  and  gallant 
soldier,  who  visited  the  shores  of  the  New  World  with  Cavendish 
and  Raleigh,  fought  for  his  native  land,  although  a  catholic, 
against  the  terrible  armada  of  the  Most  Catholic  King,  with 
Drake,  and  Frobisher,  and  Howard,  waged  war  in  the  Low 
Countries,  and  narrowly  missed  death  at  Zutphen  by  Philip 
Sidney's  side — stood  as  high  in  the  favor  of  his  queen  as  in  the 
estimation  of  all  good  and  honorable  men.  It  is  true,  when  the 
base  and  odious  James  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  the  lion- 
queen,  and  substituted  mean  and  loathsome  king-craft  for  frank 
and  open  English  policy,  the  grey-haired  soldier,  navigator, 
statesman — for  he  had  shone  in  each  capacity — retired,  as  his 
ancestors  had  done  before  him,  during  the  reigns  of  the  seventh 
and  eighth  Henries,  to  the  peaceful  shades  and  innocent  plea- 
sures of  Ditton-in-the-Dale. 

So  true,  however,  was  he  to  the  time-honored  principles  of 
his  high  race,  so  loyally  did  he  bring  up  his  son,  so  firmly  did 
he  strengthen  his  youthful  mind  with  all  maxims  and  all  laws 
of  honor,  linking  the  loyal  subject  to  the  rightful  king,  that  no 
sooner  had  the  troubles  broken  out  between  the  misguided  mo- 
narch and  his  rebellious  Parliament — although  the  veteran  of 
Elizabeth  had  fallen  asleep  long  before,  full  of  years  and  honors, 
than  his  young  heir,  Osborn  Fitz-Henry,  displayed  the  cogni- 
zance of  his  old  house,  mustered  his  tenantry,  and  set  foot  in 
stirrup,  well  nigh  the  first,  to  withdraw  it  the  very  last,  of  the 
adherents  of  the  hapless  Charles.  So  long  did  he  resist  in  arms, 
so  pertinaciously  did  he  uphold  the  authority  of  the  first  Charles, 
so  early  did  he  rise  again  in  behalf  of  the  second,  that  he  was 
noted  by  the  parliament  as  an  incorrigible  and  most  desperate 
malignant ;  and,  had  it  not  been  that,  by  his  gallantry  in  the 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  39*7 

field,  and  his  humanity  when  the  strife  was  ended,  he  had  won 
the  personal  good-will  of  Cromwell,  it  is  most  likely  that  it 
would  have  gone  hard  with  his  fortunes  if  not  with  his  life. 

After  the  restoration,  he  was  of  course  neglected  by  the 
fiddling,  gambling,  wenching,  royal  buffoon,  who  succeeded  the 
royal  martyr,  and  whose  necessities  he  had  supplied,  when  an 
outcast  pauper  exile  in  a  foreign  land,  from  the  proceeds  of 
those  very  estates  which  he  had  so  nearly  lost  in  fighting  for 
his  crown. 

Osborn  Fitz-Henry,  too,  was  gathered  to  his  fathers.  He 
died  little  advanced  beyond  the  prime  of  life,  worn  out  with  the 
toil  he  had  undergone  in  the  camp,  and  shattered  by  the 
wounds  he  had  received  on  almost  every  battle-field  from  Edge- 
Hill  to  Dunbar  and  "Worcester. 

He  had,  however,  married  very  young,  before  the  breaking 
out  of  the  rebellion,  and  had  lived  to  see  not  his  son  only  a 
noble  and  superior  man,  ready  to  fill  his  place  when  vacant,  and 
in  it  uphold  the  honor  of  his  family,  but  his  son's  children  also 
advancing  fast  towards  maturity. 

Allan  Fitz-Henry,  the  son  of  Charles's  stout  partisan,  the  grand- 
son of  Elizabeth's  warrior,  was  the  head  of  the  house,  when  my 
tale  commences. 

He,  too,  had  married  young — such,  indeed,  was  the  custom 
of  his  house — and  had  survived  his  wife,  by  whom  he  had  two 
fair  daughters,  but  no  heir ;  and  this  was  a  source  of  vexation 
so  constantly  present  to  his  mind,  that  in  the  end  it  altered  the 
whole  disposition  of  the  man,  rendering  him  irritable,  harsh, 
stern,  unreasonable,  and  unhappy. 

Fondly  attached  to  the  memory  of  his  lost  wife,  whom  he 
had  loved  devotedly  while  living,  it  never  entered  his  mind  to 
marry  a  second  time,  even  with  the  hope  of  begetting  an  heir 
by  whom  to  perpetuate  the  honors  and  principles  of  his  house ; 


dUS  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

although  he  was  continually  on  the  fret — miserable  himself,  and 
making  others  miserable,  in  consequence  of  the  certainty  that 
he  should  be  the  last  of  his  race. 

His  only  hope  was  now  centred  in  his  daughters,  or  to  speak 
more  correctly,  in  his  eldest  daughter — for  her  he  had  deter- 
mined to  constitute  his  heiress,  endowing  her  with  all  his  landed 
property,  all  his  heirlooms,  all  that  could  constitute  her  the 
head  of  his  house ;  in  return  for  which  he  had  predetermined 
that  she  should  become  the  wife  of  some  husband  of  his  own 
choosing,  who  should  unite  to  a  pedigree  as  noble  as  that  of  the 
Howards,  all  qualifications  which  should  fit  him  to  represent 
the  house  into  which  he  should  be  adopted ;  and  who  should 
be  willing  to  drop  his  own  paternal  name  and  bearings,  how 
ancient  and  noble  soever,  in  order  to  adopt  the  style  and  the 
arms  of  Fitz-Henry. 

Proud  by  nature,  by  blood,  and  by  education — though  with 
a  clear  and  honorable  pride — he  had  been  rendered  a  thousand 
times  prouder  and  more  haughty  by  the  very  circumstances 
which  seemed  to  threaten  a  downfall  to  the  fortunes  of  his  house 
— his  house,  which  had  survived  such  desperate  reverses ;  which 
had  come  out  of  every  trial,  like  pure  gold,  the  better  and  the 
brighter  from  the  furnace — his  house,  which  neither  the  ruin  of 
friendly  monarchs,  nor  the  persecutions  of  hostile  monarchs,  nor 
the  neglect  of  ungrateful  monarchs,  had  been  able  to  shake,  any 
more  than  the  autumnal  blasts,  or  the  frosts  of  winter,  had 
availed  to  uproot  the  oak  trees  of  his  park,  coeval  with  his  name. 

In  the  midst  of  health  and  wealth,  honor  and  good  esteem, 
with  an  affectionate  family,  and  a  devoted  household  around 
him,  Allan  Fitz-Henry  fancied  himself  a  most  unhappy  man — 
perhaps  the  most  unhappy  of  mankind. 

Alas  !  was  it  to  punish  such  vain,  such  sinful,  such  senseless, 
and  inordinate  repinings  ? 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  399 

Who  shall  presume  to  scrutinize  the  judgments,  or  pry  into 
the  secrets  of  the  Inscrutable  ? 

This  much  alone  is  certain,  that  ere  he  was  gathered  to  his 
fathers,  Allan  Fitz-Henry  might,  and  that  not  unjustly,  have 
termed  himself  that,  which  now,  in  the  very  wantonness  of  pam- 
pered and  insatiate  success  he  swore  that  he  was  4aily — the 
most  unhappy  of  the  sons  of  men. 

For  to  calamities  so  dreadful  as  might  have  disturbed  the 
reason  of  the  strongest  minded,  remorse  was  added,  so  just,  so 
terrible,  so  overwhelming,  that  men  actually  marvelled  how  he 
lived  on,  and  was  not  insane. 

But  I  must  not  anticipate. 

It  was  a  short  time  after  the  failure  of  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth's weak  and  ungrateful  attempt  at  revolution,  a  short  time 
after  the  conclusion  of  the  merciless  and  bloody  butcheries  of 
that  disgrace  to  the  English  ermine,  the  ferocious  Jefferies,  that 
the  incidents  occurred,  which  I  learned  first  on  the  evening  sub- 
sequent to  my  discovery  in  the  fatal  summer-house. 

At  this  time  Allan  *Fitz-Henry — it  was  a  singular  proof,  by 
the  way,  of  the  hereditary  pride  of  this  old  Norman  race,  that 
having  numbered  among  them  so  many  friends  and  counsellors 
of  monarchs,  no  one  of  their  number  had  been  found  willing  to 
accept  titular  honors,  holding  it  a  higher  thing  to  be  the  pre- 
mier gentleman  than  the  junior  peer  of  England — at  this  time, 
I  say,  Allan  Fitz-Henry  was  a  man  of  some  forty-five  or  fifty 
years,  well  built  and  handsome,  of  courtly  air  and  dignified  pre- 
sence ;  nor  must  it  be  imagined  that  in  his  fancied  grievances 
he  forgot  to  support  the  character  of  his  family,  or  that  he 
carried  his  griefs  abroad  with  him  into  the  world. 

At  times,  indeed,  he  might  be  a  little  grave  and  thoughtful, 
especially  at  such  times  as  he  heard  mention  made  of  the  pro- 
mise or  success  of  this  or  that  scion  of  some  noble  house ;  but 


400  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

it  was  only  within  his  own  family  circle,  and  to  his  most  fami- 
liar friends,  that  he  was  wont  to  open  his  heart,  and  complain  of 
his  ill-fortune,  at  being  the  first  childless  father  of  his  race — for 
so,  in  his  contempt  for  the  poor  girls,  whom  he  still,  strange 
contradiction!  loved  fondly  and  affectionately,  he  was  accus- 
tomed in  his  dark  hours  to  style  himself;  as  if  forsooth  an  heir 
male  were  the  only  offspring  worthy  to  be  called  the  child  of 
such  a  house. 

Though  he  was  fond,  and  gentle,  and  at  times  even  tender  to 
his  motherless  daughters — for.  to  do  him  justice,  he  never  suf- 
fered a  symptom  of  his  disappointment  and  disgust  to  break  out 
to  their  annoyance,  yet  was  there  no  gleam  of  paternal  satis- 
faction in  his  sad  eye,  no  touch  of  paternal  pride  in  his  vexed 
heart,  as  he  looked  upon  their  graceful  forms,  and  noted  their 
growing  beauties. 

And  yet  they  were  a  pair  of  whom  the  haughtiest  potentate 
on  earth  might  have  been  proud,  and  with  justice. 

Blanche  and  Agnes  Fitz-Henry  were  at  this  time  in  their 
eighteenth  and  seventeenth  years — but  one  summer  having 
passed  between  their  births,  and  their  mother  having  died  within 
a  few  hours  after  the  latter  saw  the  light. 

They  were,  indeed,  as  lovely  girls  as  the  sun  of  merry  Eng- 
land shone  upon  ;  and  in  those  days  it  was  still  merry  England, 
and  famous  then  as  now  for  the  rare  beauty  of  its  women,  whe- 
ther in  the  first  dawn  of  girlhood,  or  in  the  full-blown  flush  of 
feminine  maturity. 

Both  tall,  above  the  middle  height  of  women,  both  exquisitely 
formed,  with  figures  delicate  and  slender,  yet  full  withal,  and 
voluptuously  rounded,  with  the  long  taper  hands,  the  small  and 
shapely  feet  and  ankles,  the  swan-like  necks,  and  classic  heads 
gracefully  set  on,  which  are  held  to  denote,  in  all  countries,  the 
predominance  of  gentle  blood  ;  when  seen  at  a  distance,  and 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  401 

judged  by  the  person  only,  it  would  have  been  almost  impossible 
to  distinguish  the  elder  from  the  younger  sister. 

But  look  upon  them  face  to  face,  and  never,  in  all  respects, 
were  two  girls  of  kindred  race  so  entirely  dissimilar.  The  elder, 
Blanche,  was,  as  her  name  denotes,  though  ladies'  names  are 
oftentimes  misnomers,  a  genuine  English  blond.  Her  abundant 
and  beautiful  hair,  trained  to  float  down  upon  her  snowy  shoul- 
ders in  silky  masses  of  unstudied  curls,  was  of  the  lightest  golden 
brown.  There  was  not  a  shade  of  red  in  its  hues,  although  her 
complexion  was  of  that  peculiarly  dazzling  character  which  is 
common  to  red-haired  persons ;  yet  when  the  sun  shone  on  its 
glistening  waves,  so  brilliantly  did  the  golden  light  flash  from 
it,  that  you  might  almost  have  imagined  there  was  a  circlet  of 
living  glory  above  her  clear  white  brow. 

Her  eyebrows  and  eyelashes  were  many  shades  darker  than 
her  hair,  relieving  her  face  altogether  from  that  charge  of  insi- 
pidity which  is  so  often,  and  for  the  most  part  so  truly,  brought 
against  fair-haired  and  fair-featured  beauties.  The  eyes  them- 
selves, which  those  long  lashes  shrouded,  were  of  the  deepest 
violet  blue ;  so  deep,  that  at  first  sight  you  would  have  deemed 
them  black,  but  for  the  soft  and  humid  languor  which  is  never 
seen  in  eyes  of  that  color.  The  rest  of  her  features  were  as  near 
as  possible  to  the  Grecian  model,  except  that  there  was  a  slight 
depression  where  the  nose  joins  the  brow,  breaking  that  perfectly 
straight  line  of  the  classical  face,  which,  however  beautiful  to 
the  statue,  is  less  attractive  in  life  than  the  irregular  outline  of 
the  northern  countenance. 

Her  mouth,  with  the  exception  of — perhaps  I  should  rather 
say  in  conjunction  with — her  eyes,  was  the  most  lovely  and 
expressive  feature  in  her  face.  There  were  twin  dimples  at 
its  corners ;  yet  was  not  its  expression  one  of  habitual  mirth, 
but  of  tenderness  and  softness  rather,  unmixed,  although  an 

18*  . 


402  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

anchorite  might  have  been  pardoned  the  wish  to  press  his  lips 
to  its  voluptuous  curve  with  the  slightest  expression  of  sen- 
suality. 

Her  complexion  was,  as  I  have  said,  dazzlingly  brilliant; 
but  it  was  the  brilliance  of  the  lily  rather  than  of  the  rose, 
though  at  the  least  emotion,  whether  of  pain  or  pleasure,  the 
eloquent  blood  would  rush,  like  the  morning's  glow  over  some 
snow-crowned  x\lp,  across  cheek,  brow,  and  neck,  and  bosom, 
and  vanish  thence  so  rapidly,  that  ere  you  should  have  time  to 
say,  nay,  even  to  think, 

"  Look !  look  how  beautiful,  'twas  fled." 

Such  was  the  elder  beauty,    the  destined    heiress   of  the 

ancient  house,  the  promised  mother  of  a  line  of  sons,  who 

should  perpetuate  the  name  and  hand  down  the  principles  of 

the  Fitz-Henries   to  far  distant  ages.     Such  wrere  the  musings 

of  her  father, 

Proh  !  cceca  mens  mortalium ! 

and  at  such  times  alone,  if  ever,  a  sort  of  doubtful  pride  would 
come  to  swell  his  hope,  whispering  that  for  such  a  creature, 
no  man,  however  high  or  haughty,  but  would  be  willing  to 
renounce  the  pride  of  birth,  even  untempted  by  the  demesnes 
of  Ditton-in-the-Dale,  and  many  another  lordly  manor  coupled 
to  the  time-honored  name  of  Fitz-Henry. 

Her  sister  Agnes,  though  not  less  beautiful  than  Blanche — 
and  there  were  those  who  insisted  that  she  was  more  so — was 
as  different  from  her,  in  all  but  the  general  resemblance  of 
figure  and  carriage,  as  night  is  from  morning,  or  autumn  from 
early  summer-time. 

Her  ringlets,  not  less  profuse  than  Blanche's,  and  clustering 
in  closer  and  more  mazy  curls,  were  as  black  as  the  raven's 
wing,  and,  like  the  feathers  of  the  wild  bird,  were  lighted  up 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  403 

when  the  sun  played  on  them  with  a  sort  of  purplish  and 
metallic  gloss,  that  defies  alike  the  pen  of  the  writer  and  the 
painter's  pencil  to  depict  to  the  eye. 

Her  complexion,  though  soft  and  delicate,  was  of  the  very 
darkest  hue  that  is  ever  seen  in  persons  of  unmixed  European 
blood ;  so  dark  that  the  very  blood  which  would  mantle  to  her 
cheek  at  times  in  burning  blushes,  was  shaded,  as  it  were,  with 
a  darker  hue,  like  damask  roses  seen  through  the  medium  of  a 
gold-tinted  window-pane. 

Her  brows  and  lashes  were  as  black  as  night,  but,  strange 
to  say,  the  eyes  that  flashed  from  beneath  them  with  an  almost 
painful  splendor,  were  of  a  clear,  deep  azure,  less  dark  than 
those  of  the  fairer  sister,  giving  a  singular  and  wild  character 
to  her  whole  face,  and  affecting  the  style  of  her  beauty,  but 
whether  for  the  better  or  the  worse  it  was  for  those  who  ad- 
mired or  shunned — and  there  were  who  took  both  parts — to 
determine.  Her  face  was  rounder  and  fuller  than  her  sister's, 
and  in  fact  this  was  true  of  her  whole  person — so  much  so, 
that  she  was  often  mistaken  for  the  elder — her  features  were 
less  regular,  her  nose  having  a  slight  tendency  to  that  form 
which  has  no  name  in  our  language,  but  which  charmed  all 
beholders  in  Roxana,  as  retrousse.  Her  mouth  was  as  warm, 
as  soft,  as  sweetly  dimpled,  but  it  was  not  free  from  that  ex- 
pression which  Blanche's  lacked  altogether,  and  might  have 
been  blamed  as  too  wooing  and  luxurious. 

Such  were  the  various  characters  of  the  sisters'  personal 
appearance — the  characters  of  their  mental  attributes  were  as 
distinctly  marked  and  as  widely  different. 

Blanche  was  all  gentleness  and  moderation  from  her  very 
cradle — a  delicate  and  tender  child,  smiling  always  but  rarely 
laughing  ;  never  boisterous  or  loud  even  in  her  childish  plays. 
And  as  she  grew  older  this  character  became  more  definite, 


404  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

and  was  more  strongly  observed  ;  she  was  a  pensive,  tranquil 
creature,  not  melancholy,  much  less  sad — for  she  was  awake 
to  all  that  was  beautiful  or  grand,  all  that  was  sweet  or  gentle 
in  the  face  of  nature,  or  in  the  history  of  man  ;  and  there  was, 
perhaps,  more  real  happiness  concealed  under  her  calm  ex- 
terior, than  is  often  to  be  found  under  the  wilder  mirth  of 
merrier  beings.  Ever  ready  to  yield  her  wishes  to  those  of 
her  friends  or  companions,  many  persons  imagined  that  she 
had  little  will,  and  no  fixed  wishes  or  deliberate  aspirations ; 
passionless  and  pure  as  the  lily  of  the  vale,  many  supposed 
that  she  was  cold  and  heartless.  Oh !  ignorant !  not  to  re- 
member that  the  hearts  of  the  fiercest  volcanoes  boil  still  be- 
neath a  head  of  snow ;  and  that  it  is  even  in  the  calmest 
and  most  moderate  characters  that  passion  once  enkindled 
burns  fierce,  perennial,  and  unquenchable  !  Thus  far,  however, 
had  she  advanced  into  the  flower  of  fair  maidenhood,  un- 
disturbed by  any  warmer  dream  than  devoted  affection 
towards  her  parent,  whose  wayward  grief  she  could  understand 
if  she  could  not  appreciate,  and  whom  she  strove  by  every 
gentle  wile  to  wean  from  his  morbid  fancies  ;  and  earnest  love 
towards  her  sister,  whom  she,  indeed,  almost  adored — perhaps 
adored  the  more  from  the  very  difference  of  their  minds,  and 
for  her  very  imperfections. 

For  Agnes  was  all  gay  vivacity,  and  petulance,  and  fire  ; 
so  that  her  young  companions,  who  sportively  named  Blanche 
the  icicle,  had  christened  her  the  sunbeam ;  and,  in  truth,  if 
the  first  name  were  ill  chosen,  the  second  seemed  to  be  an 
inspiration ;  for  like  a  sunbeam  that  touched  nothing  but  to 
illuminate  it,  like  a  sunbeam  she  played  with  all  things,  smiled 
on  all  things  in  their  turn — like  a  sunbeam  she  brought  mirth 
with  her  presence,  and  after  her  departure  left  a  double  gloom 
behind  her. 


DITTON-JN-THE-DALE.  405 

More  dazzling  than  Blanche,  she  made  her  impression  at 
first  sight,  and  so  long  as  the  skies  were  clear  and  the  atmo- 
sphere unruffled,  the  sunbeam  would  continue  to  gild,  to  charm, 
to  be  worshipped.  But  if  the  time  of  darkness  and  affliction 
came,  the  gay  sunbeam  held  aloof,  while  the  poor  icicle,  melted 
from  its  seeming  coldness,  was  ever  ready  to  weep  for  the  sor- 
rows of  those  who  had  neglected  her  in  the  days  of  their 
happiness. 

Unused  to  yield,  high-spirited  when  crossed,  yet  carrying  off 
even  her  stubbornness  and  quick  temper  by  the  brilliancy,  the 
wit,  the  lively  and  bold  audacity  which  she  cast  around  them, 
Agnes  ruled  in  her  circle  an  imperious  and  despotic  queen  ; 
while  her  slaves,  even  as  they  trembled  before  her  half  sportive 
but  emphatic  frown,  did  not  suspect  the  sceptre  of  the  tyrant 
beneath  the  spell  of  the  enchantress. 

Agnes,  in  one  word,  was  the  idol  of  the  rich  and  gay; 
Blanche  was  the  saint  of  the  poor,  the  lowly,  the  sick,  and 
those  who  mourn. 

It  may  be  that  the  peculiarity  of  her  position,  the  neglect 
which  she  had  always  experienced  from  her  father,  and  me- 
diately from  the  hirelings  of  the  household,  ever  prompt  to 
pander  to  the  worst  feelings  of  their  superiors — the  conscious- 
ness that  born  co-heiress  with  her  sister,  she  was  doomed  to 
sink  into  the  insignificance  of  an  undowered  and  uncared-for 
girl,  had  tended  in  some  degree  to  form  the  character  which 
Agnes  had  ever  borne,  and  which  alone  she  had  displayed, 
until  the  period  when  my  tale  commences. 

It  may  be  that  the  consciousness  of  wrong  endured,  had 
hardened  a  heart  naturally  soft  and  tender,  and  rendered  it 
unyielding  and  rebellious ;  it  may  be  that  injustice,  endured 
at  the  hands  of  hirelings  in  early  years,  had  engendered  a 
spirit  of  resistance,  and  armed  her  mind  and  quickened  her 


406  •        PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

tongue  against  the  world,  which,  as  she  fancied,  wronged  her. 
It  may  be,  more  than  all,  that  a  secret,  perhaps  an  uncon- 
scious jealousy  of  her  sister's  superior  advantages,  not  in  the 
wretched  sense  of  worldly  wealth  and  position,  but  of  the  love 
and  reverence  of  friends  and  kindred,  had  embittered  her 
young  soul,  and  caused  her  to  cast  over  it  a  veil  of  light  and 
wild  demeanor,  of  free  speech  and  daring  mirth,  which  had  by 
degrees  grown  into  habits,  and  become  part  and  parcel  of  her 
nature. 

If  it  were  so,  however,  there  were  no  outward  indications 
that  such  was  the  case ;  for  never  were  there  seen  two  sisters 
more  united  and  affectionate — nor  would  it  have  been  easy  to 
say  on  which  side  the  balance  of  kindness  preponderated.  For 
if  Blanche  was  ever  the  first  to  cede  to  her  sister's  wishes,  and 
the  last  in  any  momentary  disappointment  or  annoyance  to 
speak  one  quick  or  unkind  word,  so  was  Agnes,  with  her  ex- 
pressive features  and  flashing  eye,  and  ready,  tameless  wit, 
prompt  as  light  to  avenge  the  slightest  reflection  cast  on 
Blanche's  tranquillity  and  coldness ;  and  if  at  times  a  quick 
word  or  sharp  retort  broke  from  her  lips,  and  called  a  tear  to 
the  eye  of  her  calmer  sister,  not  a  moment  would  elapse  before 
she  would  cast  herself  upon  her  neck  and  weep  her  sincere 
contrition,  and  be  for  hours  an  altered  being ;  until  her  natural 
spirit  would  prevail,  and  she  would  be  again  the  wild  mirth- 
ful madcap,  whose  very  faults  could  call  forth  no  keener  re- 
proach than  a  grave  and  thoughtful  smile  from  the  lips  of  those 
who  loved  her  the  most  dearly. 

Sad  were  the  daughters  of  Allan  Fitz-Henry — daughters 
whom  not  a  peer  in  England  but  would  have  regarded  as  the 
brightest  gems  of  his  coronet,  as  the  pride  and  ornament  of 
his  house ;  but  whom,  by  a  strange  anomaly,  their  own  father, 
full  as  he  was  of  warm  affections  and  kindly  inclinations,  never 


DITTON-IN-TIIE-DALE.  407 

looked  upon  but  with  a  secret  feeling  of  discontent  and  dis- 
appointment, that  they  were  not  other  than  they  were;  and 
with  a  half-confessed  conviction  that  fair  as  they  were,  tender 
and  loving,  graceful,  accomplished,  delicate,  and  noble-minded, 
he  could  have  borne  to  lay  them  both  in  the  cold  grave,  so 
that  a  son  could  be  given  to  the  house  in  exchange  for  their 
lost  loveliness. 

In  outward  demeanor,  however,  he  was  to  his  children  all 
that  a  father  should  be ;  a  little  querulous  at"  times,  perhaps, 
and  irritable,  but  fond,  though  not  doting,  and  considerate ; 
and  I  have  wandered  greatly  from  my  intention,  if  anything 
that  I  have  said  has  been  construed  to  signify  that  there 
existed  the  slightest  estrangement  between  the  father  and  his 
children ;  for  had  Allan  Fitz-Henry  but  suspected  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a  thing,  he  had  torn  the  false  pride  like  a 
venomous  weed  from  his  heart,  and  had  been  a  wiser  and  a 
happier  man.  In  his  case  it  was  the  blindness  of  the  heart 
that  caused  its  partial  hardness ;  but  events  were  at  hand  that 
should  flood  it  with  the  clearest  light,  and  melt  it  to  more  than 
woman's  tenderness. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  lovely  summer's  evening,  in  the  year  16 8-,  was  drawing 
towards  its  close,  when  many  a  gay  and  brilliant  cavalcade  of 
both  sexes,  many  of  the  huge  gilded  coaches  of  that  day,  and 
many  a  train  of  liveried  attendants,  winding  through  the  green 
lane  as  they  arrived,  some  in  this  direction  from  Eton,  some 
in  that,  across  Datchet-mead  from  Windsor  and  its  royal 
castle,  came  thronging  towards  Ditton-in-the-Dale. 


408  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Lights  were  beginning  to  twinkle  as  the  shadows  fell  thick 
among  the  arcades  of  the  trim  gardens,  and  the  wilder  forest- 
walks  which  extended  their  circuitous  course  for  many  a  mile 
along  the  stately  hall  of  the  Fitz-Henries  ;  loud  bursts  of 
festive  or  of  martial  music  came  pealing  down  the  wind,  mixed 
with  the  hum  of  a  gay  and  happy  concourse,  causing  the 
nightingales  to  hold  their  peace,  not  in  despair  of  rivalling  the 
melody,  but  that  the  mirth  jarred  unpleasantly  on  the  souls  of 
the  melancholy  birds. 

The  gates  of  Ditton-in-the-Dale  were  flung  wide  open,  for  it 
was  gala  night,  and  never  had  the  old  hall  put  on  a  gayer  or 
more  sumptuous  show  than  it  had  donned  that  evening. 

From  far  and  near  the  gentry  and  the  nobles  of  Buckingham 
and  Berkshire  had  gathered  to  the  birth-day  ball — for  such 
was  the  occasion  of  the  festive  meeting. 

Yes  !  it  was  Blanche  Fitz-Henry's  birth-day ;  and  on  this 
gay  and  glad  anniversary  was  the  fair  heiress  of  that  noble 
house  to  be  introduced  to  the  great  world  as  the  future  owner 
of  those  beautiful  demesnes. 

From  the  roof  to  the  foundation  the  old  manor-house — it 
was  a  stately  red  brick  mansion  of  the  latter  period  of  Eliza- 
bethan architecture,  with  mullioned  windows  and  stacks  of 
curiously  wreathed  chimneys — was  one  blaze  of  light ;  and  as 
group  after  group  of  gay  and  high-born  riders  came  caracoling 
up  to  the  hospitable  porch,  and  coach  after  coach,  with  its 
running  footmen  or  mounted  outriders,  lumbered  slowdy  in 
their  train,  thes  aloons  and  corridors  began  to  fill  up  rapidly 
with  a  joyous  and  splendid  company. 

The  entrance-hall,  a  vast  square  apartment,  wainscoted  with 
old  English  oak,  brighter  and  richer  in  its  dark  hues  than 
mahogany,  received  the  entering  guests ;  and  what  with  the 
profusion  of  wax-lights,  pendent  in  gorgeous  chandeliers  from 


DITTON-IN-THEDALE.  409 

the  carved  roof,  or  fixed  in  silver  sconces  to  the  walls,  the  gay 
festoons  of  green  wreaths  and  fresh  summer  flowers  mixed 
quaintly  with  old  armor,  blazoned  shields,  and  rustling  ban- 
ners, some  of  which  had  waved  over  the  thirsty  plains  of  Syria, 
and  been  fanned  by  the  shouts  of  triumph  that  pealed  so  high 
at  Cressy  and  Poitiers,  it  presented  a  not.  unapt  picture  of  that 
midway  period — that  halting-place,  as  it  were,  between  the 
old  world  and  the  new — when  chivalry  and  feudalism  had 
ceased  already  to  exist  among  the  nations,  but  before  the  rude- 
ness of  reform  had  banished  the  last  remnants  of  courtesy,  and 
the  reverence  for  all  things  that  were  high  and  noble — for  all 
things  that  were  fair  and  graceful — for  all  things,  in  one  word, 
except  the  golden  calf,  the  mob-worshipped  mammon. 

Within  this  stately  hall  was  drawn  up  in  glittering  array 
the  splendid  band,  of  the  Life  Guards,  for  royalty  himself  was 
present,  and  all  the  officers  of  that  superb  regiment  quartered 
at  Windsor  had  followed  in  his  train  ;  and  as  an  ordinary 
courtesy  to  their  well-proved  and  loyal  host,  the  services  of 
those  chosen  musicians  had  been  tendered  and  accepted. 

Through  many  a  dazzling  corridor,  glittering  with  lights, 
and  redolent  of  choicest  perfumes,  through  many  a  fair  saloon 
the  guests  were  marshalled  to  the  great  drawing-room,  where, 
beneath  a  canopy  of  state,  the  ill-advised  and  imbecile  mo- 
narch, soon  to  be  deserted  by  the  very  princes  and  princesses 
who  now  clustered  round  his  throne,  sat,  with  his  host  and  his 
lovely  daughters  at  his  right  hand,  accepting  the  homage  of 
the  fickle  crowd,  who  were  within  a  little  year  to  bow  obse- 
quiously to  the  cold-blooded  Hollander. 

That  was  a  day  of  singular,  and  what  would  now  be  termed 
hideous  costumes — a  day  of  hair-powder  and  patches,  of  hoops 
and  trains,  of  stiff  brocades  and  tight-laced  stomachers,  and 
high-heeled  shoes  among  the  ladies — of  flowing  periwigs  and 


410  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

coats  with  huge  cuffs  and  no  collars,  and  voluminous  skirts, 
of  diamond,  hilted  rapiers  and  diamond  buckles,  ruffles  of 
Valenciennes  and  Mechlin  lace,  among  the  ruder  sex.  And 
though  the  individual  might  be  metamorphosed  strangely  from 
the  fair  form  which  nature  gave  him,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  concourse  of  highly-bred  and  graceful  persons,  when  viewed 
as  a  whole,  was  infinitely  more  picturesque,  infinitely  more  like 
what  the  fancy  paints  a  meeting  of  the  great  and  noble,  than 
any  assemblage  nowadays,  however  courtly  or  refined,  in 
which  the  stiff  dress  coats  and  white  neckcloths  of  the  men 
are  not  to  be  redeemed  by  the  Parisian  finery — how  much 
more  natural,  let  critics  tell,  than  the  hoop  and  train — of  the 
fair  portion  of  the  company. 

The  rich  materials,  the  gay  colors,  the  glittering  jewelry, 
and  waving  plumes,  all  contributed  their  part  to  the  splendor 
of  the  show ;  and  in  those  days  a  gentleman  possessed  at  least 
this  advantage,  lost  to  him  in  these  practical  utilitarian  times, 
that  he  could  not  by  any  possibility  be  mistaken  for  his  own 
valet  de  chambre — a  misfortune  which  has  befallen  many  a  one, 
the  most  aristocratic  not  excepted,  of  modern  nobility. 

A  truly  graceful  person  will  be  graceful,  and  look  well  in 
every  garb,  however  strange  or  outre;  and  there  is,  moreover, 
undoubtedly  something,  apart  from  any  paltry  love  of  finery 
or  mere  vanity  of  person,  which  elevates  the  thoughts,  and 
stamps  a  statelier  demeanor  on  the  man  who  is  clad  highly 
for  some  high  occasion.  The  custom,  too,  of  wearing  arms, 
peculiar  to  the  gentlemen  of  that  day,  had  its  effect,  and  that 
not  a  slight  one,  as  well  on  the  character  as  on  the  bearing  of 
the  individual  sodistinguished. 

As  for  the  ladies,  loveliness  will  still  be  loveliness,  disguise 
it  as  you  may ;  and  if  the  beauties  of  King  James's  court  lost 
much  by  the  travesty  of  their  natural  ringlets,  they  gained, 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  411 

perhaps,  yet  more  from  the  increased  lustre  of  their  complexions 
and  brilliancy  of  their  eyes. 

So  that  it  is  far  from  being  the  case,  as  is  commonly  sup- 
posed, that  it  was  owing  to  fashion  alone,  and  the  influence  of 
all  powerful  custom,  that  the  costume  of  that  day  was  not 
tolerated  only,  but  admired  by  its  wearers. 

At  this  time,  however,  the  use  of  hair-powder,  though  gene- 
ral, was  by  no  means  universal ;  and  many  beauties  who  fan- 
cied that  it  did  not  suit  their  complexions,  dispensed  with  it 
altogether,  or  wore  it  in  some  modified  shape,  and  tinged  with 
some  coloring  matter,  which  assimilated  it  more  closely  to  the 
natural  tints  of  the  hair. 

At  all  events,  it  must  have  been  a  dull  eye,  and  a  cold  heart, 
that  could  have  looked  undelighted  on  the  assemblage  that 
night  gathered  in  the  ball-room  of  Ditton-in-the-Dale. 

But  now  the  reception  was  finished ;  the  royal  party  moved 
into  the  ball-room,  from  which  they  shortly  afterwards  retired, 
leaving  the  company  at  liberty  from  the  restraint  which  their 
presence  had  imposed  upon  them.  The  concourse  broke  up 
into  little  groups ;  the  stately  minuet  was  performed,  and 
livelier  dances  followed  it ;  and  gentlemen  sighed  tender  sighs, 
and  looked  unutterable  things;  and  ladies  listened  to  soft  non- 
sense, and  smiled  gentle  approbation  ;  and  melting  glances 
were  exchanged,  and  warm  hands  were  pressed  warmly ;  and 
fans  were  flirted  angrily,  and  flippant  jokes  were  interchanged 
— for  human  nature,  whether  in  the  seventeenth  or  the  nine- 
teenth century,  wThether  arrayed  in  brocade  or  simply  dressed 
in  broadcloth,  is  human  nature  still;  and,  perhaps,  not  one' 
feeling  or  one  passion  that  actuated  man's  or  woman's  heart 
five  hundred  years  ago,  but  dwells  within  it  now,  and  shall 
dwell  unchanged  for  ever.- 

It  needs  not  to  say  that,  on  such  an  occasion,  in  their  own 


414  PERSONS  AND  PICTURES. 

fair  beauty's  cold,  my  lord.  Give  me  that  Italian  complexion, 
and  that  coal-black  hair !  Gad  zooks  !  I  honor  the  girl's  spirit 
for  not  disguising  it  with  starch  and  pomatum.  There's  more 
passion  in  her  little  finger,  than  in  the  whole  soul  of  the 
other." 

"You're  out  there,'  George  Delawarr,"  returned  the  peer. 
"  Trust  me,  it  is  not  always  the  quickest  flame  that  burns  the 
strongest ;  nor  the  liveliest  girl  that  feels  the  most  deeply. 
There's  an  old  saying,  and  a  true  one,  that  still  water  aye  runs 
deep.  And,  trust  me,  if  I  know  anything  of  the  dear,  delicious, 
devilish  sex,  as  methinks  I  am  not  altogether  a  novice  at  the 
trade,  if  ever  Blanche  Fitz-Henry  love  at  all,  she  will  love  with 
her  whole  soul,  and  heart,  and  spirit.  That  gay,  laughing  bru- 
nette will  love  you  with  her  tongue,  her  eyes,  her  head,  and 
perhaps  her  fancy — the  other,  if,  as  I  say,  she  ever  love  at  all, 
will  love  with  her  whole  being." 

"  The  broad  acres !  my  lord  !  all  the  broad  acres !"  replied 
the  cornet,  laughing  more  merrily  than  before.  "  Fore  God !  I 
think  it  the  very  thing  for  you.  For  the  first  Lord  St.  George 
was,  I  believe,  in  the  ark  with  Noah,  so  that  you  will  pass  cur- 
rent with  the  first  gentleman  of  England.  I  prithee,  my  lord, 
push  your  suit,  and  help  me  on  a  little  with  my  dark  Dulcinea." 

"  Faith !  George,  I've  no  objection  ;  and  see,  this  dance  is 
over.  Let  us  go  up  and  ask  their  fair  hands.  You'll  have  no 
trouble  in  ousting  that  shallow-pated  puppy  Jack,  and  I  think 
I  can  put  the  pass  on  Mr.  privy-counsellor  there,  although  he  is 
simpering  so  prettily.  But,  hold  a  moment,  have  you  been 
duly  and  in  form  presented  to  your  black-eyed  beauty  !" 

"  Upon  my  soul !  I  hope  so,  my  lord.  It  were  very  wrong 
else ;  for  I  have  danced  with  her  three  times  to-night  already." 

"  The  devil !  Well,  come  along,  quick.  I  see  that  they  are 
going  to  announce  supper,  so  soon  as  this  next  dance  shall  be 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  415 

ended ;  and  if  we  can  engage  them  now,  we  shall  have  their 
fair  company  for  an  hour  at  least." 

"  I  am  with  you,  my  lord !" 

And  away  they  sauntered  through  the  crowd,  and  ere  long- 
were  coupled  for  a  little  space  each  to  the  lady  of  his  choice. 

The  dance  was  soon  over,  and  then,  as  Lord  St.  George  had 
surmised,  supper  was  announced,  and  the  cavaliers  led  their 
ladies  to  the  sumptuous  board,  and  there  attended  them  with  all 
that  courtly  and  respectful  service,  which,  like  many  another 
good  thing,  has  passed  away  and  been  forgotten  with  the  dia- 
mond-hilted  sword  and  the  full  bottomed  periwig. 

George  Delawarr  wTas  full  as  ever  of  gay  quips  and  merry 
repartees ;  his  wit  was  as  sparkling  as  the  champagne  which  in 
some  degree  inspired  it,  and  as  innocent.  There  was  no  touch 
of  bitterness  or  satire  in  his  polished  and  gentle  humor  ;  no  envy 
or  dislike  pointed  his  quick,  epigrammatic  speech ;  but  all  was 
clear,  light,  and  transparent,  as  the  sunny  air  at  noonday.  Nor 
was  his  conversation  altogether  light  and  mirthful.  There  were 
at  times  bursts  of  high  enthusiasm,  at  which  he  would  himself 
laugh  heartily  a  moment  afterwards — there  were  touches  of  pass- 
ing romance  and  poetry  blending  in  an  under-current  with  his 
fluent  mirth  ;  and,  above  all,  there  was  an  evident  strain  of  right 
feeling,  of  appreciation  of  all  that  was  great,  and  generous,  and 
good,  predominant  above  romance  and  wit,  perceptible  in  every 
word  he  uttered. 

And  Agnes  listened,  and  laughed,  and  flung  back  skilfully 
and  cleverly  the  ball  of  conversation,  as  he  tossed  it  to  her. 
She  was  pleased,  it  was  evident,  and  amused.  But  she  was 
pleased  only  as  with  a  clever  actor,  a  brilliant  performer  on 
some  new  instrument  now  heard  for  the  first  time.  The  gay, 
wild  humor  of  the  young  man  hit  her  fancy  ;  his  mad  wit  struck 
a  kindred  chord  in  her  mind ;  but  the  latent  poetry  and  romance 


416  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

passed  unheeded,  and  the  noblest  point  of  all,  the  good  and 
gracious  feelings,  made  no  impression  on  the  polished  but  hard 
surface  of  the  bright  maiden's  heart. 

Meantime,  how  fared  the  peer  with  the  calmer  and  gentler 
sister  ?  Less  brilliant  than  George  Delawarr,  he  had  travelled 
much,  had  seen  more  of  men  and  things,  had  a  more  cultivated 
mind,  was  more  of  a  scholar,  and  no  less  of  a  gentleman,  scarce 
less  perhaps  of  a  soldier;  for  he  had  served  a  campaign  or  two 
in  his  early  youth  in  the  Low  Countries. 

He  was  a  noble  and  honorable  man,  clever,  and  eloquent,  and 
well  esteemed — a  little,  perhaps,  spoiled  by  that  good  esteem,  a 
little  too  confident  of  himself,  too  conscious  of  his  own  good 
mien  and  good  parts,  and  a  little  hardened,  if  very  much 
polished,  by  continual  contact  with  the  world. 

He  was,  however,  an  easy  and  agreeable  talker,  accustomed  to 
the  society  of  ladies,  in  which  he  was  held  to  shine,  and  fond  of 
shining.  He  exerted  himself  also  that  night,  partly  because  he 
was  really  struck  with  Blanche's  grace  and  beauty,  partly  be- 
cause Delawarr's  liveliness  and  wit  excited  him  to  a  sort  of  play- 
ful rivalry. 

Still,  he  was  not  successful ;  for  though  Blanche  listened  gra- 
ciously, and  smiled  in  the  right  places,  and  spoke  in  answer 
pleasantly  and  well,  when  she  did  speak,  and  evidently  wished 
to  appear  and  to  be  amused ;  her  mind  was  at  times  absent  and 
distracted,  and  it  could  not  long  escape  the  observation  of  so 
thorough  a  man  of  the  world  as  Lord  St.  George,  that  he  had 
not  made  that  impression  on  the  young  country  damsel  which 
he  was  wont  to  make,  with  one  half  the  effort,  on  what  might 
be  supposed  more  difficult  ladies. 

But  though  he  saw  this  plainly,  he  was  too  much  of  a  gen- 
tleman to  be  either  piqued  or  annoyed ;  and  if  anything  he 
exerted  himself  the  more  to  please,  when  he  believed  exertion 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  41 7 

useless  ;  and  by  degrees  his  gentle  partner  laid  aside  her  ab- 
straction, and  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  hour  with  something 
of  her  sister's  mirth,  though  with  a  quieter  and  more  chastened 
tone. 

It  was  a  pleasant  party,  and  a  merry  evening ;  but  like  all 
other  things,  merry  or  sad,  it  had  its  end,  and  passed  away,  and 
by  many  was  forgotten;  but  there  were  two  persons  present 
there  who  never  while  they  lived  forgot  that  evening — for  there 
were  other  two,  to  whom  it  was  indeed  the  commencement  of 
the  end. 

But  the  hour  for  parting  had  arrived,  and  with  the  ceremo- 
nious greetings  of  those  days,  deep  bows  and  stately  courtesies, 
and  kissing  of  fair  hands,  and  humble  requests  to  be  permitted 
to  pay  their  duty  on  the  following  day,  the  cavaliers  and  ladies 
parted. 

When  the  two  gallants  stood  together  in  the  great  hall, 
George  Delawarr  turned  suddenly  to  the  peer — 

"  Where  the  deuce  are  you  going  to  sleep  to-night,  St.  George  ? 
You  came  down  hither  all  the  way  from  London,  did  you  not  ? 
You  surely  do  not  mean  to  return  to-night." 

"  I  surely  do  not  wish  it,  you  mean,  George.  No,  truly.  But 
I  do  mean  it.  For  my  fellows  tell  me  that  there  is  not  a  bed  to 
be  had  for  love,  which  does  not  at  all  surprise  me,  or  for  money, 
which  I  confess  does  somewhat,  in  Eton,  Slough,  or  Windsor. 
And  if  I  must  go  back  to  Brentford  or  to  Hounslow,  as  well  at 
once  to  London." 

"  Come  with  me !  Come  with  me,  St.  George.  I  can  give 
you  quarters  in  the  barracks,  and  a  good  breakfast,  and  a  game 
of  tennis  if  you  will ;  and  afterward,  if  you  like,  we'll  ride  over 
and  see  how  these  bright-eyed  beauties  look  by  daylight,  after 
all  this  night-work." 

"A  good  offer,  George,  and  I'll  take  it  as  it  is  offered." 

19     , 


418  PERSONS   AND    PICTURES. 

"  How  are  you  here  ?  In  a  great  lumbering  coach  I  suppose. 
Well,  look  you,  I  have  got  two  horses  here;  you  shall  take 
mine,  and  I'll  ride  on  my  fellow's,  who  shall  go  with  your  people 
and  pilot  them  on  the  road,  else  they'll  be  getting  that  great 
gilded  Noah's  ark  into  Datchet-ditch.  Have  you  got  any  tools  ? 
Ay !  ay  !  I  see  you  travel  well  equipped,  if  you  do  ride  in  your 
coach.  Now  your  riding-cloak,  the  nights  are  damp  here,  by 
the  river-side,  even  in  summer ;  oh  !  never  mind  your  pistols, 
you'll  find  a  brace  in  my  holsters,  genuine  Kuchenreuters.  I 
can  hit  a  crown  piece  with  them,  for  a  hundred  guineas,  at  fifty 
paces." 

"  Heaven  send  that  you  never  shoot  at  me  with  them,  if  that's 
the  case,  George." 

"  Heaven  send  that  I  never  shoot  at  any  one,  my  lord,  unless 
it  be  an  enemy  of  my  king  and  country,  and  in  open  warfare  ; 
for  so  certainly  as  I  do  shoot  I  shall  kill." 

"I  do  not  doubt  you,  George.  But  let's  be  off.  The  lights 
are  burning  low  in  the  sockets,  and  these  good  fellows  are  evi- 
dently tired  out  with  their  share  of  our  festivity.  Fore  God !  I 
believe  we  are  the  last  of  the  guests." 

And  with  the  word,  the  young  men  mounted  joyously,  and 
galloped  away  at  the  top  of  their  horses'  speed  to  the  quarters 
of  the  life-guards  in  Windsor. 

Half  an  hour  after  their  departure,  the  two  sisters  sat  above 
stairs  in  a  pleasant  chamber,  disrobing  themselves,  with  the 
assistance  of  their  maidens,  of  the  cumbrous  and  stiff  costumes 
of  the  ball-room,  and  jesting  merrily  over  the  events  of  the 
evening. 

"  Well,  Blanche,"  said  Agnes,  archly,  "  confess,  siss,  who  is 
the  lord  paramount,  the  beau  par  excellence,  of  the  ball  ?  I 
know,  you  demure  puss !  After  all,  it  is  ever  the  quiet  cat  that 
licks  the  cream.     But  to  think  that  on  your  very  first  night 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  419 

you  should  have  made  such  a  conquest.  So  difficult,  too, 
to  please,  they  say,  and  all  the  great  court  ladies  dying  for 
him." 

"  Hush !  madcap.  I  don't  know  who  you  mean.  At  all 
events,  I  have  not  danced  four  dances  in  one  evening  with  one 
cavalier.     Ah  !  have  I  caught  you,  pretty  mistress  I" 

"  Oh  !  that  was  only  poor  George  Delawarr.  A  paltry  cornet 
in  the  guards.  He  will  do  well  enough  to  have  dangling  after 
one,  to  play  with,  while  he  amuses  one — but  fancy,  being  proud 
of  conquering  poor  George !  His  namesake  with  the  Saint 
before  it  were  worth  a  score  of  such." 

"  Fie,  sister  !"  said  Blanche,  gravely.  "  I  do  not  love  to  hear 
you  talk  so.  I  am  sure  he's  a  very  pretty  gentleman,  and  has 
twice  as  much  head  as  my  lord,  if  I'm  not  mistaken  ;  and  three 
times  as  much  heart." 

"  Heart,  indeed,  siss  !  Much  you  know  about  hearts,  I  fancy. 
But,  now  that  you  speak  of  it,  I  will  try  if  he  has  got  a  heart. 
If  he  has,  he  will  do  well  to  pique  some  more  eligible — " 

"  Oh  !  Agnes,  Agnes !  I  cannot  hear  you — " 

"  Pshaw  !"  interrupted  the  younger  sister,^ery  bitterly,  "  this 
affectation  of  sentiment  and  disinterestedness  sits  very  prettily 
on  the  heiress  of  Ditton-in-the-Dale,  Long  Netherby,  and  Wal- 
tham  Ferrers,  three  manors,  and  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year  to 
buy  a  bridegroom  !  Poor  I,  with  my  face  for  my  fortune,  must 
needs  make  my  wit  eke  out  my  want  of  dowry.  And  I'm  not 
one,  I  promise  you,  siss,  to  choose  love  in  a  cottage.  No,  no ! 
Give  me  your  Lord  St.  George,  and  I'll  make  over  all  my  right 
and  title  to  poor  George  Delawarr  this  minute.  Heigho !  I 
believe  the  fellow  is  smitten  with  me  after  all.  Well,  well !  I'll 
have  some  fun  with  him  before  I  have  done  yet." 

"  Again,"  said  Blanche,  gravely,  but  reproachfully,  "  I  have 
long  seen  that  you  are  light,  and  careless  whom  you  wound 


420  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

with  your  wild  words,  but  I  never  thought  before  that  you  were 
bad-hearted." 

"Bad-hearted,  sister  !" 

"Yes!  bad-hearted!  To  speak  to  me  of  manors,  or  of 
money,  as  if  for  fifty  wills,  or  five  hundred  fathers,  I  would  ever 
profit  by  a  parent's  whim  to  rob  my  sister  of  her  portion.  As 
if  I  would  not  rather  lie  in  the  cold  grave,  than  that  my  sister 
should  have  a  wish  ungratified,  which  I  had  power  to  gratify, 
much  less  that  she  should  narrow  down  the  standard  of  her 
choice — the  holiest  and  most  sacred  thing  on  earth — to  the 
miserable  scale  of  wealth  and  title.  Out  upon  it !  Never,  while 
you  live,  speak  so  to  me  again !" 

"  Sister,  I  never  will.  I  did  not  mean  it,  sister,  dear,"  cried 
Agnes,  now  much  affected,  as  she  saw  how  vehemently  Blanche 
was  moved.  "  You  should  not  heed  me.  You  know  my  wild, 
rash  way,  and  how  I  speak  whatever  words  come  first." 

"  Those  were  very  meaning  words,  Agnes — and  very  bitter, 
too.  They  cut  me  to  the  heart,"  cried  the  fair  girl,  bursting 
into  a  flood  of  passionate  tears. 

"  Oh  !  do  not — ck>  not,  Blanche.  Forgive  me,  dearest !  Indeed, 
indeed,  I  meant  nothing !" 

"  Forgive  you,  Agnes  !  I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  I  was  not 
even  angry,  but  pained,  but  sorry  for  you,  sister ;  for  sure  I  am, 
that  if  you  give  way  to  this  bitter,  jealous  spirit,  you  will  work 
much  anguish  to  yourself,  and  to  all  those  who  love  you." 

"  Jealous,  Blanche  !"  / 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  jealous !  But  let  us  say  no  more.  Let  this 
pass,  and  be  forgotten ;  but  never,  dear  girl,  if  you  love  me,  as 
I  think  you  do,  never  so  speak  to  me  again." 

"I  never,  never  will."  And  she  fell  upon  her  neck,  and 
kissed  her  fondly,  as  her  heart  relented,  and  she  felt  some- 
thing of  sincere  repentance   for  the  harsh  words  which  she 


DITTON-IN-TIIE-DALE.  421 

had  spoken,  and  the  hard,  bitter  feelings  which  suggested 
them. 

Another  hour,  and,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  they  were 
sleeping  as  sweetly  as  though  no  breath  of  this  world's  bitter- 
ness had  ever  blown  upon  their  hearts,  or  stirred  them  into 
momentary  strife. 

Peace  to  their  slumbers,  and  sweet  dreams  ! 

It  was,  perhaps,  an  hour  or  two  after  noon,  and  the  early 
dinner  of  the  time  was  already  over,  when  the  two  sisters 
strolled  out  into  the  gardens,  unaccompanied,  except  by  a  tall 
old  greyhound,  Blanche's  peculiar  friend  and  guardian,  and 
some  two  or  three  beautiful  silky-haired  King  Charles  spaniels. 

After  loitering  for  a  little  while  among  the  trim  parterres 
and  box-edged  terraces,  and  gathering  a  few  sweet  summer 
flowers,  they  turned  to  avoid  the  heat,  which  was  excessive, 
into  the  dark  elm  avenue,  and  wandered  along  between  the  tall 
black  yew  hedges,  linked  arm-in-arm,  indeed,  but  both  silent 
and  abstracted,  and  neither  of  them  conscious  of  the  rich  melan- 
choly music  of  the  nightingale,  which  was  ringing  all  around 
them  in  that  pleasant  solitude. 

Both,  indeed,  were  buried  in  deep  thought;  and  each, 
perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  felt  that  her  thought  was 
such  that  she  could  not,  dared  not,  communicate  it  to  her 
sister. 

For  Blanche  Fitz-Henry  had,  on  the  previous  night,  begun, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  to  suspect  that  she  was  the  owner, 
for  the  time  being,  of  a  commodity  called  a  heart,  although  it 
may  be  that  the  very  suspicion  proved  in  some  degree  that  the 
possession  was  about  to  pass,  if  it  were  not  already  passing, 
from  her. 

In  sober  seriousness,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  young 
cornet  of  the  Life  Guards,  although  he  had  made  so  little  im- 


422  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

pression  on  her  to  whom  he  had  devoted  his  attentions,  had 
produced  an  effect  different  from  anything  which  she  had 
ever  felt  before  on  the  mind  of  the  elder  sister.  It  was  not  his 
good  mien,  nor  his  noble  air  that  had  struck  her ;  for  though 
he  was  a  well-made,  fine-looking  man,  of  graceful  manners  and 
high-born  carriage,  there  were  twenty  men  in  the  room  with 
whom  he  could  not  for  five  minutes  have  sustained  a  compari- 
son in  point  of  personal  appearance. 

His  friend,  the  Viscount  St.  George,  to  whom  she  had  lent 
but  a  cold  ear,  was  a  far  handsomer  man.  Nor  was  it  his  wit 
and  gay  humor,  and  easy  flow  of  conversation,  that  had  cap- 
tivated her  fancy ;  although  she  certainly  did  think  him  the 
most  agreeable  man  she  had  ever  listened  to.  lSTo,  it  was  the 
under-current  of  delicate  and  poetical  thought,  the  glimpses  of 
a  high  and  noble  spirit,  which  flashed  out  at  times  through  the 
light  veil  of  reckless  merriment,  which,  partly  in  compliance 
with  the  spirit  of  the  day,  and  partly  because  his  was  a  gay 
and  mirthful  nature,  he  had  superinduced  over  the  deeper  and 
grander  points  of  his  character.  No ;  it  was  a  certain  origi- 
nality of  mind,  which  assured  her  that,  though  he  might  talk 
lightly,  he  was  one  to  feel  fervently  and  deeply — it  was  the 
impress  of  truth,  and  candor,  and  high  independence,  which 
was  stamped  on  his  every  word  and  action,  that  first  riveted 
her  attention,  and,  in  spite  of  her  resistance,  half  fascinated  her 
imagination. 

This  it  was  that  had  held  her  abstracted  and  apparently  in- 
different, while  Lord  St.  George  was  exerting  all  his  powers  of 
entertainment  in  her  behalf ;  this  it  was  that  had  roused  her 
indignation  at  hearing  her  sister  speak  so  slightingly,  and,  as 
it  seemed  to  her,  so  ungenerously  of  one  whom  she  felt  intui- 
tively to  be  good  and  noble. 

This  it  was  which  now  held  her  mute  and  thoughtful,  and 


DITTON-IN  THE-DALE.  423 

almost  sad ;  for  she  felt  conscious  that  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
loving — loving  one  who,  for  aught  that  he  had  shown  as  yet, 
cared  not  for  her,  perhaps  even  preferred  another — and  that 
other  her  own  sister. 

Thereupon  her  maiden  modesty  rallied  tumultuous  to  th< 
rescue,  and  suggested  the  shame  of  giving  love  unasked,  giving 
it,  perchance,  to  be  scorned — and  almost  she  resolved  to  stifle 
the  infant  feeling  in  its  birth,  and  rise  superior  to  the  weakness. 
But  when  was  ever  love  vanquished  by  cold  argument,  or 
bound  at  the  chariot-wheels  of  reason  ? 

The  thought  would  still  rise  up  prominent,  turn  her  mind  to 
whatever  subject  she  would,  coupled  with  something  of  pity  at 
the  treatment  which  he  was  like  to  meet  from  Agnes,  something 
of  vague,  unconfessed  pleasure  that  it  was  so,  and  something  of 
secret  hope  that  his  eyes  would  ere  long  be  opened,  and  that  she 
might  prove,  in  the  end,  herself  his  consoler. 

And  what,  meanwhile,  were  the  dreams  of  Agnes  ?  Bitter — 
bitter,  and  black,  and  hateful.  Oh !  it  is  a  terrible  considera- 
tion, how  swiftly  evil  thoughts,  once  admitted  to  the  heart, 
take  root  and  flourish,  and  grow  up  into  a  rank  and  poisonous 
crop,  choking  the  good  grain  utterly,  and  corrupting  the  very 
soil  of  which  they  have  taken  hold.  There  is  but  one  hope — 
but  one !  To  tear  them  from  the  root  forcibly,  though  the 
heart-strings  crack,  and  the  soul  trembles,  as  with  a  spiritual 
earthquake.  To  nerve  the  mind  firmly  and  resolutely,  yet 
humbly  withal,  and  contritely,  and  with  prayer  against  temp- 
tation, prayer  for  support  from  on  high — to  resist  the  Evil  One 
with  the  whole  force  of  the  intellect,  the  whole  truth  of  the 
heart,  and  to  stop  the  ears  steadfastly  against  the  voice  of  the 
charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely. 

But  so  did  not  Agnes  Fitz-Henry.  It  is  true  that  on  the 
preceding  night   her  better   feelings  had  been  touched,  her 


424  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

heart  had  relented,  and  she  had  banished,  as  she  thought,  the 
evil  counsellors,  ambition,  envy,  jealousy,  and  distrust,  from  her 
spirit. 

But  with  the  night  the  better  influence  passed  away,  and  ere 
the  morning  had  well  come,  the  evil  spirit  had  returned  to  his 
dwelling-place,  and  brought  with  him  other  spirits,  worse  and 
more  wicked  than  himself. 

The  festive  scene  of  the  previous  evening  had,  for  the.  first 
time,  opened  her  eyes  fairly  to  her  own  position ;  she  read  it  in 
the  demeanor  of  all  present;  she  heard  it  in  the  whispers  which 
unintentionally  reached  her  ears ;  she  felt  it  intuitively  in  the 
shade — it  was  scarcely  a  shade,  yet  she  observed  it — of  difference 
perceptible  in  the  degree  of  deference  and  courtesy  paid  to  her- 
self and  to  her  sister. 

She  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  Blanche  was  everything,  her- 
self a  mere  cipher — that  Blanche  was  the  lady  of  the  manor, 
the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  the  queen  of  all  hearts ;  herself  but  the 
lady's  poor  relation,  the  dependent  on  her  bounty,  and  at  the 
best  a  creature  to  be  played  with,  and  petted  for  her  beauty 
and  her  wit,  without  regard  to  her  feelings,  or  sympathy  for 
her  heart. 

And  prepared  as  she  was  at  all  times  to  resist  even  just  au- 
thority with  insolent  rebellion ;  ready  as  she  was  always  to 
assume  the  defensive,  and  from  that  the  offensive  against  all 
whom  she  fancied  offenders,  how  angrily  did  her  heart  now  boil 
up,  how  almost  fiercely  did  she  muster  her  faculties  to  resist,  to 
attack,  to  conquer,  to  annihilate  all  whom  she  deemed  her 
enemies — and  that,  for  the  moment,  was  the  world. 

Conscious  of  her  own  beauty,  of  her  own  wit,  of  her  own 
high  and  powerful  intellect,  perhaps  over-confident  in  her  re- 
sources, she  determined  on  that  instant  that  she  would  devote 
them  all,  all  to  one  purpose,  to  which  she  would  bend  every 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  425 

energy,  direct  every  thought  of  her  mind — to  her  own  aggran- 
dizement, 'by  means  of  some  great  and  splendid  marriage, 
which  should  set  her  as  far  above  the  heiress  of  Ditton-in-the- 
Dale,  as  the  rich  heiress  now  stood  in  the  world's  eye  above 
the  portionless  and  dependent  sister. 

Nor  was  this  all — there  was  a  sterner,  harder,  and  more 
wicked  feeling  yet,  springing  up  in  her  heart,  and  whispering 
the  sweetness  of  revenge — revenge  on  that  amiable  and  gentle 
sister,  who,  so  far  from  wronging  her,  had  loved  her  ever  with 
the  tenderest  and  most  affectionate  love,  who  would  have  sacri- 
ficed her  dearest  wishes,  to  her  welfare — but  whom,  in  the  hard- 
ness of  her  embittered  spirit,  she  could  now  see  only  as  an 
intruder  upon  her  own  just  rights,  a  rival  on  the  stage  of 
fashion,  perhaps  in  the  interests  of  the  heart — whom  she  already 
envied,  suspected,  almost  hated. 

And  Blanche,  at  that  self-same  moment,  had  resolved  to  keep 
watch  on  her  own  heart  narrowly,  and  to  observe  her  sister's 
bearing  towards  George  Delawarr,  that  in  case  she  should  per- 
ceive her  favoring  his  suit,  she  might  at  once  crush  down  the 
germ  of  rising  passion,  and  sacrifice  her  own  to  her  dear  sister's 
happiness. 

Alas  !  Blanche !     Alas  !  Agnes ! 

Thus  they  strolled  onward,  silently  and  slowly,  until  they 
reached  the  little  green  before  the  summer-house,  which  was 
then  the  gayest  and  most  lightsome  place  that  can  be  imagined, 
with  its  rare  paintings  glowing  in  their  undimmed  hues,'  its 
gilding  bright  and  burnished,  its  furniture  all  sumptuous  and 
new,  and  instead  of  the  dark  funereal  ivy,  covered  with  wood- 
bine and  rich  clustered  roses.  The  windows  were  all  thrown 
wide  open  to  the  perfumed  summer  air,  and  the  warm  light 
poured  in  through  the  gaps  in  the  tree-tops,  and  above  the  sum- 
mits of  the  then  carefully  trimmed  hedgerows,  blithe  and  golden. 

19* 


426  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

They  entered  and  sat  down,  still  pensive  and  abstracted ;  but 
ere  long  the  pleasant  and  happy  influences  of  the  time  and  place 
appeared  to  operate  in  some  degree  on  the  feelings  of  both, 
but  especially  on  the  tranquil  and  well-ordered  mind  of  the 
elder  sister.  She  raised  her  head  suddenly,  and  was  about  to 
speak,  when  the  rapid  sound  of  horses'  feet,  unheard  on  the  soft 
sand  until  they  were  hard  by,  turned  her  attention  to  the  win- 
dow, and  the  next  moment  the  two  young  cavaliers,  who  were 
even  then  uppermost  in  her  mind,  came  into  view,  cantering 
along  slowly  on  their  well-managed  chargers. 

Her  eye  was  not  quicker  than  those  of  the  gallant  riders, 
who,  seeing  the  ladies,  whom  they  had  ridden  over  to  visit, 
sitting  by  the  windows  of  the  summer-house,  checked  their 
horses  on  the  instant,  and  doffed  their  plumed  hats. 

"  Good  faith,  fair  ladies,  we  are  in  fortune's  graces  to-daj7," 
said  the  young  peer,  gracefully,  "  since  having  ridden  thus  far 
on  our  way  to  pay  you  our  humble  devoirs,  we  meet  you  thus 
short  of  our  journey's  end." 

"  But  how  are  we  to  win  our  way  to  you,"  cried  Delawarr, 
"  as  you  sit  there  bright  jchatelaines  of  your  enchanted  bower — 
for  I  see  neither  fairy  skiff,  piloted  by  grim-visaged  dwarfs,  to 
waft  us  over,  nor  even  a  stray  dragon,  by  aid  of  whose  broad 
wings  to  fly  across  this  mimic  moat,  which  seems  to  be  some- 
thing of  the  deepest?" 

"  Oh !  gallop  on,  gay  knights,"  said  Agnes,  smiling  on  Lord 
St.  George,  but  averting  her  face  somewhat  from  the  cornet, 
"  gallop  on  to  the  lodges,  and  leaving  there  your  coursers,  take 
the  first  path  on  the  left  hand,  and  that  will  lead  you  to  our 
presence;  and  should  you  peradventure  get  entangled  in  the 
hornbeam  maze,  why,  one  of  us  two  will  bring  you  the  clue, 
like  a  second  Ariadne.  Ride  on  and  we  will  meet  you.  Come, 
sister,  let  us  walk." 


D1TT0N-IN-THE-DALE.  427 

Blanche  bad  as  yet  scarcely  found  words  to  reply  to  trie  greet- 
ing of  the  gallants,  for  the  coincidence  of  their  arrival  with  her 
own  thoughts  had  embarrassed  her  a  little,  and  she  had  blushed 
crimson  as  she  caught  the  eye  of  George  Delawarr  fixed  on  her 
with  a  marked  expression,  beneath  which  her  own  dropped 
timidly.  But  now  she  arose,  and  bowing  with  an  easy  smile, 
and  a  few  pleasant  words,  expressed  her  willingness  to  abide  by 
her  sister's  plan. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  ladies  met  their  gallants  in  the  green 
labyrinth  of  which  Agnes  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  pairs, 
for  the  walk  was  too  narrow  to  allow  them  all  four  to  walk 
abreast,  they  strolled  in  company  toward  the  Hall. 

What  words  they  said  I  am  not  about  to  relate — for  such 
conversations,  though  infinitely  pleasant  to  the  parties,  are  for 
the  most  part  infinitely  dull  to  third  persons — but  it  so  fell 
out,  not  without  something  of  forwardness  and  marked  ma- 
nagement, which  did  not  escape  the  young  soldier's  rapid  eye, 
on  the  part  of  Agnes,  that  the  order  of  things  which  had  been 
on  the  previous  evening  was  reversed ;  the  gay,  rattling  girl 
attaching  herself  perforce  to  the  viscount,  not  without  a  sharp 
and  half-sarcastic  jest  at  the  expense  of  her  former  partner, 
and  the  mild  heiress  falling  to  his  charge. 

George  Delawarr  had  been  smitten,  it  is  true,  the  night 
before  by  the  gaiety  and  rapid  intellect  of  Agnes,  as  well  as 
by  the  wild  and  peculiar  style  of  her  beauty ;  and  it  might 
well  have  been  that  the  temporary  fascination  might  have 
ripened  into  love.  But  he  wras  hurt,  and  disgusted  even  more 
than  hurt  by  her  manner,  and  observing  her  with  a  watchful 
eye  as  she  coquetted  with  his  friend,  he  speedily  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  St.  George  was  right  in  his  estimate  of  her 
character  at  least,  although  he  now  seemed  to  be  flattered  and 
amused  by  her  evident  prepossession  in  his  favor. 


426  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

They  entered  and  sat  down,  still  pensive  and  abstracted ;  but 
ere  long  the  pleasant  and  happy  influences  of  the  time  and  place 
appeared  to  operate  in  some  degree  on  the  feelings  of  both, 
but  especially  on  the  tranquil  and  well-ordered  mind  of  the 
elder  sister.  She  raised  her  head  suddenly,  and  was  about  to 
speak,  when  the  rapid  sound  of  horses'  feet,  unheard  on  the  soft 
sand  until  they  were  hard  by,  turned  her  attention  to  the  win- 
dow, and  the  next  moment  the  two  young  cavaliers,  who  were 
even  then  uppermost  in  her  mind,  came  into  view,  cantering 
along  slowly  on  their  well-managed  chargers. 

Her  eye  was  not  quicker  than  those  of  the  gallant  riders, 
who,  seeing  the  ladies,  whom  they  had  ridden  over  to  visit, 
sitting  by  the  windows  of  the  summer-house,  checked  their 
horses  on  the  instant,  and  doffed  their  plumed  hats. 

"  Good  faith,  fair  ladies,  we  are  in  fortune's  graces  to-da}r," 
said  the  young  peer,  gracefully,  "  since  having  ridden  thus  far 
on  our  way  to  pay  you  our  humble  devoirs,  we  meet  you  thus 
short  of  our  journey's  end." 

"  But  how  are  we  to  win  our  way  to  you,"  cried  Delawarr, 
"  as  you  sit  there  bright  chatelaines  of  your  enchanted  bower — 
for  I  see  neither  fairy  skiff,  piloted  by  grim-visaged  dwarfs,  to 
waft  us  over,  nor  even  a  stray  dragon,  by  aid  of  whose  broad 
wings  to  fly  across  this  mimic  moat,  which  seems  to  be  some- 
thing of  the  deepest?" 

"  Oh !  gallop  on,  gay  knights,"  said  Agnes,  smiling  on  Lord 
St.  George,  but  averting  her  face  somewhat  from  the  cornet, 
"  gallop  on  to  the  lodges,  and  leaving  there  your  coursers,  take 
the  first  path  on  the  left  hand,  and  that  will  lead  you  to  our 
presence;  and  should  you  peradventure  get  entangled  in  the 
hornbeam  maze,  why,  one  of  us  two  will  bring  you  the  clue, 
like  a  second  Ariadne.  Ride  on  and  we  will  meet  you.  Come, 
sister,  let  us  walk." 


D1TT0N-IN-THE-DALE.  42*7 

Blanche  bad  as  yet  scarcely  found  words  to  reply  to  the  greet- 
ing of  the  gallants,  for  the  coincidence  of  their  arrival  with  her 
own  thoughts  had  embarrassed  her  a  little,  and  she  had  blushed 
crimson  as  she  caught  the  eye  of  George  Delawarr  fixed  on  her 
with  a  marked  expression,  beneath  which  her  own  dropped 
timidly.  But  now  she  arose,  and  bowing  with  an  easy  smile, 
and  a  few  pleasant  words,  expressed  her  willingness  to  abide  by 
her  sister's  plan. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  ladies  met  their  gallants  in  the  green 
labyrinth  of  which  Agnes  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  pairs, 
for  the  walk  was  too  narrow  to  allow  them  all  four  to  walk 
abreast,  they  strolled  in  company  toward  the  Hall. 

What  words  they  said  I  am  not  about  to  relate — for  such 
conversations,  though  infinitely  pleasant  to  the  parties,  are  for 
the  most  part  infinitely  dull  to  third  persons — but  it  so  fell 
out,  not  without  something  of  forwardness  and  marked  ma- 
nagement, which  did  not  escape  the  young  soldier's  rapid  eye, 
on  the  part  of  Agnes,  that  the  order  of  things  which  had  been 
on  the  previous  evening  was  reversed ;  the  gay,  rattling  girl 
attaching  herself  perforce  to  the  viscount,  not  without  a  sharp 
and  half-sarcastic  jest  at  the  expense  of  her  former  partner, 
and  the  mild  heiress  falling  to  his  charge. 

George  Delawarr  had  been  smitten,  it  is  true,  the  night 
before  by  the  gaiety  and  rapid  intellect  of  Agnes,  as  well  as 
by  the  wild  and  peculiar  style  of  her  beauty ;  and  it  might 
well  have  been  that  the  temporary  fascination  might  have 
ripened  into  love.  But  he  wTas  hurt,  and  disgusted  even  more 
than  hurt  by  her  manner,  and  observing  her  with  a  watchful 
eye  as  she  coquetted  with  his  friend,  he  speedily  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  St.  George  was  right  in  his  estimate  of  her 
character  at  least,  although  he  now  seemed  to  be  flattered  and 
amused  by  her  evident  prepossession  in  his  favor. 


428  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

He  had  not,  it  is  true,  been  deeply  enough  touched  to  feel 
either  pique  or  melancholy  at  this  discovery,  but  was  so  far 
heart-whole  as  to  be  rather  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  fickleness 
of  the  merry  jilt  than  either  to  repine  or  to  be  angry. 

He  was  by  no  means  the  man,  however,  to  cast  away  the 
occasion  of  pleasure ;  and  walking  with  so  beautiful  and  soft 
a  creature  as  Blanche,  he  naturally  abandoned  himself  to  the 
tide  of  the  hour,  and  in  a  little  while  found  himself  engaged 
in  a  conversation  which,  if  less  sparkling  and  brilliant,  was  a 
thousand  times  more  charming  than  that  which  he  had  yes- 
terday held  with  her  sister. 

In  a  short  time  he  had  made  the  discovery  that  with  regard 
to  the  elder  sister,  too,  his  friend's  penetration  had  exceeded 
his  own ;  and  that  beneath  that  calm  and  tranquil  exterior 
there  lay  a  deep  and  powerful  mind,  stored  with  a  treasury  of 
the  richest  gems  of  thought  and  feeling.  He  learned  in  that 
long  woodland  walk  that  she  was,  indeed,  a  creature  both  to 
adore  and  to  be  adored ;  and  he,  too,  like  St.  George,  was 
certain  that  the  happy  man  whom  she  should  love  would  be 
loved  for  himself  alone,  with  the  whole  fervor,  the  whole  truth, 
the  whole  concentrated  passion  of  a  heart,  the  flow  of  which 
once  unloosed,  would  be  but  the  stronger  for  the  restraint 
which  had  hitherto  confined  it. 

Ere  long,  as  they  reached  the  wider  avenue,  the  two  parties 
united,  and  then  more  than  ever  he  perceived  the  immense 
superiority  in  all  loveable,  all  feminine  points,  of  the  elder  to 
the  younger  sister ;  for  Agnes,  though  brilliant  and  seemingly 
thoughtless  and  spirit-free  as  ever,  let  fall  full  many  a  bitter 
word,  many  a  covert  taunt  and  hidden  sneer,  which,  with  his 
eyes  now  opened  as  they  were,  he  readily  detected,  and  which 
Blanche,  as  he  could  discover,  even  through  her  graceful 
quietude,  felt,  and  felt  painfully. 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  429 

They  readied  the  Hall  at  length,  and  were  duly  welcomed 
by  its  master ;  refreshments  were  offered  and  accepted ;  and 
the  young  men  were  invited  to  return  often,  and  a  day  was 
fixed  on  which  they  should  partake  the  hospitalities  of  Ditton 
at  least  as  temporary  residents. 

The  night  was  already  closing  in  when  they  mounted  their 
horses  and  withdrew,  both  well  pleased  with  their  visit ;  for 
the  young  lord  was  in  pursuit  of  amusement  only,  and  seeing 
at  a  glance  the  coyness  of  the  heiress  and  the  somewhat  for- 
ward coquetry  of  her  sister,  he  had  accommodated  himself  to 
circumstances,  and  determined  that  a  passing  flirtation  with  so 
pretty  a  girl,  and  a  short  sejour  at  a  house  so  well  appointed 
as  Ditton,  would  be  no  unpleasant  substitute  for  London  in 
the  dog-days;  and  George  Delaware,  like  Romeo,  had  dis- 
carded the  imaginary  love  the  moment  he  found  the  true 
Juliet.  If  not  in  love  he  certainly  was  fascinated — charmed ; 
he  certainly  thought  Blanche  the  sweetest  and  most  lovely  girl 
he  had  ever  met,  and  was  well  inclined  to  believe  that  she  was 
the  best  and  most  admirable.  He  trembled  on  the  verge  of 
his  fate. 

And  she — her  destiny  was  fixed  already,  and  for  ever ! 
And  when  she  saw  her  sister  delighted  with  the  attentions  of 
the  youthful  nobleman,  she  smiled  to  herself  and  dreamed  a 
pleasant  dream,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  sweet  delusion. 
She  had  already  asked  her  own  heart  u  does  he  love  me  P  and 
though  it  fluttered  sorely  and  hesitated  for  a  while,  it  did  not 
answer  "JSTo!" 

But  as  the  gentlemen  rode  homeward,  St.  George  turned 
shortly  on  his  companion,  and  ^aid,  gravely, 

"You  have  changed  your  mind,  Delaware,  and  found  out 
that  I  am  right.  Nevertheless,  beware  !  do  not,  for  God's 
sake,  fall  in  love  with  her,  or  make  her  love  you  !" 


430  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

The  blood  flushed  fiery-red  to  the  ingenuous  brow  of  George 
Delawarr,  and  he  was  embarrassed  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
tried  to  turn  off  his  confusion  with  a  jest. 

"  What,  jealous,  my  lord  !  jealous  of  a  poor  cornet  with  no 
other  fortune  than  an  honorable  name  and  a  bright  sword  !  I 
thought  you,  too,  had  changed  your  mind  when  I  saw  you 
flirting  so  merrily  with  that  merry  brunette." 

"  You  did  see  me  flirting,  George — nothing  more ;  and  I 
have  changed  my  mind  since  the  beginning,  if  not  since  the 
end  of  last  evening — for  I  thought  at  first  that  fair  Blanche 
Fitz-Henry  would  make  me  a  charming  wife ;  and  now  I  am 
sure  that  she  would  not — " 

"  Why  so,  my  lord  ?     For  God's  sake  !  why  say  you  so  ?" 

"  Because  she  never  would  love  me,  George ;  and  /  would 
never  marry  any  woman  unless  I  were  sure  that  she  both 
could  and  did.  So  you  see  that  I  am  not  the  least  jealous  ; 
but  still  I  say,  don't  fall  in  love  wTith  her — " 

"  Faith  !  St.  George,  but  your  admonition  comes  somewhat 
late ;  for  I  believe  I  am  half  in  love  with  her  already." 

"  Then  stop  where  you  are  and  go  no  deeper ;  for  if  I  err 
not,  she  is  more  than  half  in  love  with  you,  too." 

"  A  strange  reason,  St.  George,  wherefore  to  bid  me  stop  I" 

"  A  most  excellent  good  one !"  replied  the  other,  gravely, 
and  almost  sadly,  "  for  mutual  love  between  you  two  can  only 
lead  to  mutual  misery.  Her  father  never  would  consent  to 
her  marrying  you  more  than  he  would  to  her  marrying  a 
peasant — the  man  is  perfectly  insane  on  the  subject  of  title- 
deeds  and  heraldry,  and  will  accept  no  one  for  his  son-in-law 
who  cannot  show  as  many  quarterings  as  a  Spanish  grandee 
or  a  German  noble.  But,  of  course,  it  is  of  no  use  talking 
about  it.  Love  never  yet  listened  to  reason  ;  and,  moreover,  I 
suppose  what  is  to  be  is  to  be — come  what  may." 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  431 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  St.  George,  about  Agnes  ?  I  think 
you  are  touched  there  a  little  !" 

"  Not  a  whit  I — honor  bright !  And  for  what  I  will  do — 
amuse  myself,  George — amuse  myself,  and  that  pretty  coquette 
too  ;  and  if  I  find  her  less  of  a  coquette,  with  more  of  a  heart 
than  I  fancy  she  has — "  he  stopped  short  and  laughed. 

"  Well,  what  then — what  then  ?"  cried  George  Delawarr. 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  to  decide  then" 

"  And  so  say  I,  St.  George.  Meanwhile,  I,  too,  will  amuse 
myself." 

"  Ay  !  but  observe  this  special  difference — what  is  fun  to 
you  may  be  death  to  her,  for  she  has  a  heart,  and  a  fine,  and 
true,  and  deep  one ;  may  be  death  to  yourself,  for  you,  too, 
are  honorable,  and  true,  and  noble ;  and  that  is  why  I  love 
you,  George,  and  why  I  speak  to  you  thus,  at  the  risk  of  being 
held  meddlesome  or  impertinent." 

"  Oh,  never,  never  !"  exclaimed  Delawarr,  moving  his  horse 
closer  up  to  him,  and  grasping  his  hand  warmly,  "  never  ! 
You  meddlesome  or  impertinent !  Let  me  hear  no  man  call 
you  so.  But  I  will  think  of  this.  On  my  honor,  J  will  think 
of  this  that  you  have  said  !" 

And  he  did  think  of  it.  Thought  of  it  often,  deeply — and 
the  more  he  thought,  the  more  he  loved  Blanche  Fitz-Henry. 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  rolled  on,  and  still  those  two 
young  cavaliers  were  constant  visitors,  sometimes  alone,  some- 
times with  other  gallants  in  their  company,  at  Ditton-in-the- 
Dale.  And  ever  still,  despite  his  companion's  warning,  Dela- 
warr lingered  by  the  fair  heiress's  side,  until  both  were  as  deeply 
enamored  as  it  is  possible  for  two  persons  to  be,  both  single- 
hearted,  both  endowed  with  powerful  intellect  and  powerful 
imagination ;  both  of  that  strong  and  energetic  temperament 
which  renders  all  impressions  permanent,  all  strong  passions 


432  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

immortal.  It  was  strange  that  there  should  have  been  two 
persons,  and  there  were  but  two,  who  discovered  nothing  of 
what  was  passing — suspected  nothing  of  the  deep  feelings 
which  possessed  the  hearts  of  the  young  lovers  ;  while  all  else 
marked  the  growth  of  liking-  into  love,  of  love  into  that  abso- 
lute and  overwhelming  idolatry  which  but  few  souls  can  com- 
prehend, and  which  to  those  few  is  the  mightiest  of  blessings 
or  the  blackest  of  curses. 

And  those  two,  as  is  oftentimes  the  case,  were  the  very  two 
whom  it  most  concerned  to  perceive,  and  who  imagined  them- 
selves the  quickest  and  the  clearest  sighted — Allan  Fitz-Henry 
and  the  envious  Agnes. 

But  so  true  is  it  that  the  hope  is  oft  parent  to  the  thought, 
and  the  thought  again  to  security  and  conviction,  that,  having 
in  the  first  instance  made  up  his  mind  that  Lord  St.  George 
would  be  a  most  suitable  successor  to  the  name  of  the  family, 
and  secondly,  that  he  was  engaged  in  prosecuting  his  suit  to 
the  elder  daughter,  her  father  gave  himself  no  further  trouble 
in  the  matter,  but  suffered  things  to  take  their  own  course 
without  interference. 

He  saw,  indeed,  that  in  public  the  viscount  was  more  fre- 
quently the  companion  of  Agnes  than  of  Blanche ;  that  there 
seemed  to  be  a  better  and  more  rapid  intelligence  between 
them  ;  and  that  Blanche  appeared  better  pleased  with  George 
Delawarr's  than  with  the  viscount's  company. 

But,  to  a  man  blinded  by  his  own  wishes  and  prejudices, 
such  evidences  went  as  nothing.  He  set  it  down  at  once  to 
the  score  of  timidity  on  Blanche's  part,  and  to  the  desire  of 
avoiding  unnecessary  notoriety  on  St.  George's ;  and  saw 
nothing  but  what  was  perfectly  natural  and  comprehensible  in 
the  fact  that  the  younger  sister  and  the  familiar  friend  should 
be  the  mutual  confidants,  perhaps  the  go-betweens,  of  the  two 
acknowledged  lovers. 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  433 

He  was  in  high  good  humor,  therefore  ;  and  as  he  fancied 
himself  on  the  high-road  to  the  full  fruition  of  his  schemes, 
nothing  could  exceed  his  courtesy  and  kindness  to  the  young 
cornet,  whom  he  almost  overpowered  with  those  tokens  of 
affection  and  regard  which  he  did  not  choose  to  lavish  on  the 
peer,  lest  he  should  be  thought  to  be  courting  his  alliance. 

Agnes,  in  the  meantime,  was  so  busy  in  the  prosecution  of 
her  assault  on  Lord  St.  George's  heart,  on  which  she  began  to 
believe  that  she  had  made  some  permanent  impression,  that, 
she  was  perfectly  contented  with  her  own  position,  and  was 
well  disposed  to  let  other  people  enjoy  themselves,  provided 
they  did  not  interfere  with  her  proceedings.  It  is  true,  that 
at  times,  in  the  very  spirit  of  coquetry,  she  would  resume  her 
flirtation  with  George  Delawarr,  for  the  double  purpose  of 
piquing  the  viscount  and  playing  with  the  cornet's  affections, 
which,  blinded  by  self-love,  she  still  believed  to  be  devoted  to 
her  pretty  self. 

But  Delawarr  was  so  happy  in  himself,  that,  without  any 
intention  of  playing  with  Agnes,  or  deceiving  her,  he  joked 
and  rattled  with  her  as  he  would  with  a  sister,  and  believing 
that  she  must  understand  their  mutual  situation,  at  times 
treated  her  with  a  sort  of  quiet  fondness,  as  a  man  naturally 
does  the  sister  of  his  betrothed  or  his  bride,  which  effectually 
completed  her  hallucination. 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that,  while  they  were  unin- 
tentionally deceiving  others,  they  were  fatally  deceiving  them- 
selves likewise ;  and  of  this,  it  is  probable  that  no  one  was 
aware,  with  the  exception  of  St.  George,  who,  seeing  that  his 
warnings  wrere  neglected,  did  not  choose  to  meddle  further  in 
the  matter,  although  keeping  himself  ready  to  aid  the  lovers 
to  the  utmost  of  his  ability  by  any  means  that  should  offer. 

In  the  innocence  of  their  hearts,  and  the  purity  of  their  young 
love,  they  fancied  that  what  was  so  clear  to  themselves,  must  be 


434  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

apparent  to  the  eyes  of  others ;  and  they  flattered  themselves 
that  the  lady's  father  not  only  saw,  but  approved  their  affection, 
and  that  when  the  fitting  time  should  arrive,  there  would  be  no 
obstacle  to  the  accomplishment  of  their  happiness. 

It  is  true  that  Blanche  spoke  not  of  her  love  to  her  sister,  for, 
apart  from  the  aversion  which  a  refined  and  delicate  girl  must 
ever  feel  to  touching  on  that  subject,  unless  the  secret  be  teased 
or  coaxed  out  of  her  by  some  near  and  affectionate  friend,  there 
had  grown  up  a  sort  of  distance,  not  coldness,  nor  dislike,  nor 
distrust,  but  simply  distaste,  and  lack  of  communication  be- 
tween the  sisters  since  the  night  of  the  birth-day  ball.  Still 
Blanche  doubted  not  that  her  sister  saw  and  knew  all  that  was 
passing  in  her  mind,  in  the  same  manner  as  she  read  her  heart ; 
and  it  was  to  her  evident  liking  for  Lord  St.  George,  and  the 
engrossing  claim  of  her  own  affections  on  all  her  thoughts,  and 
all  her  time,  that  she  attributed  her  carelessness  of  herself. 

Deeply,  however,  did  she  err,  and  cruelly  was  she  destined  to 
be  undeceived. 

The  early  days  of  autumn  had  arrived,  and  the  woods  had 
donned  their  many-colored  garments,  when  on  a  calm,  sweet 
evening — one  of  those  quiet  and  delicious  evenings  peculiar  to 
that  season — Blanche  and  George  Delawarr  had  wandered  away 
from  the  gay  concourse  which  filled  the  gardens,  and  unseen,  as 
they  believed,  and  unsuspected,  had  turned  into  the  old  laby- 
rinth, where  first  they  had  begun  to  love,  and  were  wrapped  in 
soft  dreams  of  the  near  approach  of  more  perfect  happiness. 

But  a  quick,  hard  eye  was  upon  them — the  eye  of  Agnes ; 
for,  by  chance,  Lord  St.  George  was  absent,  having  been  sum- 
moned to  attend  the  king  at  Windsor ;  and  being  left  to  herself, 
her  busy  mind,  too  busy  to  rest  for  a  moment  idle,  plunged  into 
mischief  and  malevolence. 

No  sooner  did  she  see  them  turn  aside  from  the  broad  walk 
than  the  cloud  was  withdrawn,  as  if  by  magic,  from  her  eyes ; 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  435 

and  she  saw  almost  intuitively  all  that  had  previously  escaped 
her. 

Not  a  second  did  she  lose,  but  stealing  after  the  unsuspectino- 
pair  with  a  noiseless  and  treacherous  step,  she  followed  them, 
foot  by  foot,  through  the  mazes  of  the  clipped  hornbeam  laby- 
rinth, divided  from  them  only  by  the  verdant  screen,  listening 
to  every  half-breathed  word  of  love,  and  drinking  in  with  greedy 
ears  every  passionate  sigh. 

Delawarr's  left  arm  was  around  Blanche's  slender  waist,  and 
her  right  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder ;  the  fingers  of  their  other 
hands  were  entwined  lovingly  together,  as  they  wandered  on- 
ward, wrapped  each  in  the  other,  unconscious  of  wrong  on  their 
own  part,  and  unsuspicious  of  injury  from  any  other. 

Meanwhile,  with  rage  in  her  eyes,  with  hell  in  her  heart, 
Agnes  followed  and  listened. 

So  deadly  was  her  hatred,  at  that  moment,  of  her  sister,  so  fierce 
and  overmastering  her  rage,  that  it  was  only  by  the  utmost  exer- 
tion of  self-control  that  she  could  refrain  from  rushing  forward  and 
loading  them  with  reproaches,  with  contumely,  and  with  scorn. 

But  biting  her  lips  till  the  blood  sprang  beneath  her  pearly  teeth, 
and  clenching  her  hands  so  hard  that  the  nails  wounded  their 
tender  palms,  she  did  refrain,  did  subdue  the  swelling  fury  of  her 
rebellious  heart,  and  awaited  the  hour  of  more  deadly  vengeance. 

Vengeance  for  what  ?  She  had  not  loved  George  Delawarr — 
nay,  she  had  scorned  him  !  Blanche  had  not  robbed  her  of  her 
lover — nay,  in  her  own  thoughts,  she  had  carried  off  the  admirer, 
perhaps  the  future  lover,  from  the  heiress. 

She  was  the  wronger,  not  the  wronged  !  Then  wherefore 
vengeance  ? 

Even,  therefore,  reader,  because  she  had  wronged  her,  and 
knew  it ;  because  her  own  conscience  smote  her,  and  she  would 
fain  avenge  on  the  innocent  cause,  the  pangs  which  at  times  rent 
her  own  bosom. 


436  PERSONS    AKD    PICTURES. 

Envious  and  bitter,  she  could  not  endure  that  Blanche  should 
be  loved,  as  she  felt  she  was  not  loved  herself,  purely,  devotedly, 
for  ever,  and  for  herself  alone. 

Ambitious,  and  insatiate  of  admiration,  she  could  not  endure 
that  George  Delaware,  once  her  captive,  whom  she  still  thought 
her  slave,  should  shake  off  his  allegiance  to  herself,  much  less 
that  he  should  dare  to  love  her  sister. 

Even  while  she  listened,  she  suddenly  heard  Blanche  reply  to 
some  words  of  her  lover,  which  had  escaped  her  watchful  ears. 

"  Never  fear,  dearest  George ;  I  am  sure  that  he  has  seen  and 
knows  all — he  is  the  kindest  and  the  best  of  fathers.  I  will  tell 
him  all  to-morrow,  and  will  have  good  news  for  you  when  you 
come  to  see  me  in  the  evening." 

"  Never  !"  exclaimed  the  fury,  stamping  upon  the  ground 
violently — "  by  all  my  hopes  of  heaven  never !" 

And  with  the  words  she  darted  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
hall  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  carry  her  over  the  level  green- 
sward ;  rage  seeming  literally  to  lend  her  wings,  so  rapidly  did 
her  fiery  passions  spur  her  on  the  road  to  impotent  revenge. 

Ten  minutes  afterward,  with  his  face  inflamed  with  fury,  his 
periwig  awry,  his  dress  disordered  by  the  haste  with  which  he 
had  come  up,  Allan  Fitz-Henry  broke  upon  the  unsuspecting- 
lovers. 

Snatching  his  daughter  rudely  from  the  young  man's  half 
embrace,  he  broke  out  into  a  torrent  of  terrible  and  furious 
invective,  far  more  disgraceful  to  him  who  used  it,  than  to  those 
on  whom  it  was  vented. 

There  was  no  check  to  his  violence,  no  moderation  on  his 
tongue.  Traitor,  and  knave,  and  low-born  beggar,  were  the 
mildest  epithets  which  he  applied  to  the  high-bred  and  gallant 
soldier ;  while  on  his  sweet  and  shrinking  child  he  heaped  terms 
the  most  opprobrious,  the  most  unworthy  of  himself,  whether  as 
a  father  or  as  a  man. 


DITTON-IN-THE-DALE.  437 

The  blood  rushed  crimson  to  the  brow  of  George  Delawarr, 
and  his  hand  fell,  as  if  by  instinct,  upon  the  hilt  of  his  rapier ; 
but  the  next  moment  he  withdrew  it,  and  was  cool  by  a  mighty 
effort. 

"  From  you,  sir,  anything !  You  will  be  sorry  for  this  to- 
morrow !" 

"  Never,  sir,  never  !  Get  you  gone  !  base  domestic  traitor  ! 
Get  you  gone,  lest  I  call  my  servants,  and  bid  them  spurn  you 
from  my  premises  !" 

"I  go,  sir — "he  began  calmly;  but  at  this  moment  St. 
George  came  upon  the  scene,  having  just  returned  from  Windsor, 
eager,  but,  alas  !  too  late,  to  anticipate  the  shameful  scene — and 
to  him  did  George  Delawarr  turn  with  unutterable  anguish  in 
his  eyes.  "  Bid  my  men  bring  my  horses  after  me,  St.  George," 
said  he,  firmly,  but  mournfully ;  "  for  me,  this  is  no  place  any 
longer.  Farewell,  sir !  you  will  repent  of  this.  Adieu,  Blanche, 
we  shall  meet  again,  sweet  one." 

"  Never  !  dog,  never !  or  with  my  own  hands — " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  for  shame.  Peace,  Mister  Fitz-Henry,  these 
words  are  not  such  as  may  pass  between  gentlemen.  Go, 
George,  for  God's  sake !  Go,  and  prevent  worse  scandal,"  cried 
the  viscount. 

And  miserable  beyond  all  comprehension,  his  dream  of  bliss 
thus  cruelly  cut  short,  the  young  man  went  his  way,  leaving  his 
mistress  hanging  in  a  deep  swoon,  happy  to  be  for  a  while 
unconscious  of  her  misery,  upon  her  father's  arm. 

Three  days  had  passed — three  dark,  dismal,  hopeless  days. 
Delawarr  did  his  duty  with  his  regiment,  nay,  did  it  well — but 
he  was  utterly  unconscious,  his  mind  was  afar  off,  as  of  a  man 
walking  in  a  dream.  Late  on  the  third  night  a  small  note  was 
put  into  his  hands,  blistered  and  soiled  with  tears.  A  wTan  smile 
crossed  his  face,  he  ordered  his  horses  at  daybreak,  drained  a 
deep  draught  of  wine,  sauntered  away  to  his  own  chamber, 


438  .  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

stopping  at  every  two  or  three  paces  in  deep  meditation  ;  threw 
himself  on  his  bed,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  without  praying, 
and  slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep,  till  daybreak. 

Three  days  had  passed — three  dark,  dismal,  hopeless  days  ! 
Blanche  was  half  dead — for  she  now  despaired.  All  methods 
had  been  tried  with  the  fierce  and  prejudiced  old  man,  secretly 
prompted  by  that  demon-girl — and  all  tried  in  vain.  Poor 
Blanche  had  implored  him  to  suffer  her  to  resign  her  birthright 
in  favor  of  her  sister,  who  would  wed  to  suit  his  wishes,  but  in 
vain.  The  generous  St.  George  had  offered  to  purchase  for  his 
friend,  as  speedily  as  possible,  every  step  to  the  very  highest  in 
the  service;  nay,  he  had  obtained  from  the  easy  monarch  a 
promise  to  raise  him  to  the  peerage,  but  in  vain. 

And  Blanche  despaired ;  and  St.  George  left  the  Hall  in 
sorrow  and  disgust  that  he  could  effect  nothing. 

That  evening  Blanche's  maid,  a  true  and  honest  girl,  delivered 
to  her  mistress  a  small  note,  brought  by  a  peasant  lad ;  and 
within  an  hour  the  boy  went  thence,  the  bearer  of  a  billet, 
blistered  and  wet  with  tears. 

And  Blanche  crept  away  unheeded  to  her  chamber,  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  knees,  and  prayed  fervently  and  long ;  and 
casting  herself  upon  her  painful  bed.  at  last  wept  herself  to  sleep. 

The  morning  dawned,  merry,  and  clear,  and  lightsome ;  and 
all  the  face  of  nature  smiled  gladly  in  the  merry  sunbeams. 

At  the  first  peep  of  dawn  Blanche  started  from  her  restless 
slumbers,  dressed  herself  hastily,  and  creeping  down  the  stairs 
with  a  cautious  step,  unbarred  a  postern  door,  darted  out  into 
the  free  air,  without  casting  a  glance  behind  her,  and  fled,  with 
all  the  speed  of  mingled  love  and  terror,  down  the  green  avenue 
toward  the  gay  pavilion — scene  of  so  many  happy  hours. 

But  again  she  was  watched  by  an  envious  eye,  and  followed 
by  a  jealous  foot. 

For  scarce  ten  minutes  had  elapsed  from  the  time  when  she 


DITTO  N-IN-THE-D  ALE.  439 

issued  from  the  postern,  before  Agnes  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
with  her  dark  face  livid  and  convulsed  with  passion ;  and  after 
pausing  a  moment,  as  if  in  hesitation,  followed  rapidly  in  the 
footsteps  of  her  sister. 

When  Blanche  reached  the  summer-house,  it  was  closed  and 
untenanted ;  but  scarcely  had  she  entered  and  cast  open  the 
blinds  of  one  window  toward  the  road,  before  a  hard  horse-tramp 
was  heard  coming  up  at  full  gallop,  and  in  an  instant  George 
Delawarr  pulled  up  his  panting  charger  in  the  lane,  leaped  to 
the  ground,  swung  himself  up  into  the  branches  of  the  great 
oak-tree,  and  climbing  rapidly  along  its  gnarled  limbs,  sprang 
down  on  the  other  side,  rushed  into  the  building,  and  cast  him- 
self at  his  mistress's  feet. 

Agnes  was  entering  the  far  end  of  the  elm-tree  walk  as  he 
sprang  down  into  the  little  coplanade,  but  he  was  too  dreadfully 
preoccupied  with  hope  and  anguish,  and  almost  despair,  to 
observe  anything  around  him. 

But  she  saw  him,  and  fearful  that  she  should  be  too  late  to 
arrest  what  she  supposed  to  be  the  lovers'  flight,  she  ran  like 
the  wind. 

She  neared  the  doorway — loud  voices  reached  her  ears,  but 
whether  in  anger,  or  in  supplication,  or  in  sorrow,  she  could  not 
distinguish. 

Then  came  a  sound  that  rooted  her  to  the  ground  on  which 
her  flying  foot  was  planted,  in  mute  terror. 

The  round  ringing  report  of  a  pistol-shot !  and  ere  its  echo 
had  begun  to  die  away,  another !  • 

No.  shriek,  no  wail,  no  word  succeeded — all  was  as  silent  as 
the  grave. 

Then  terror  gave  her  courage,  and  she  rushed  madly  forward 
a  few  steps,  then  stood  on  the  threshold  horror-stricken. 

Both  those  young  souls,  but  a  few  days  before  so  happy,  so 
loving,  had  taken  their  flight — whither  ? 


440  PERSONS    AND    PICTURES. 

Both  lay  there  dead,  as  they  had  fallen,  but  unconvulsed,  and 
graceful  even  in  death.  Neither  had  groaned  or  struggled,  hut 
as  they  had  fallen,  so  they  lay,  a  few  feet  asunder — her  heart 
and  his  brain  pierced  by  the  deadly  bullets,  sped  with  the  accu- 
racy of  his  never-erring  aim. 

While  she  stood  gazing,  in  the  very  stupor  of  dread,  scarce 
conscious  yet  of  what  had  fallen  out,  a  deep  voice  smote  her  ear. 

"  Base,  base  girl,  this  is  all  your  doing !"  Then,  as  if  wa- 
kening from  a  trance,  she  uttered  a  long,  piercing  shriek,  darted 
into  the  pavilion  between  the  gory  corpses,  and  flung  herself 
headlong  out  of  the  open  window  into  the  pool  beneath. 

But  she  was  not  fated  so  to  die.  A  strong  hand  dragged  her 
out — the  hand  of  St.  George,  who,  learning  that  his  friend  had 
ridden  forth  towards  Ditton,  had  followed  him,  and  arrived  too 
late  by  scarce  a  minute. 

From  that  day  forth  Agnes  Fitz-Henry  was  a  dull,  melan- 
choly maniac.  Never  one  gleam  of  momentary  light  dispersed 
the  shadows  of  her  insane  horror — never  one  smile  crossed  her 
lip,  one  pleasant  thought  relieved  her  life-long  sorrow.  Thus 
lived  she  ;  and  when  death  at  length  came  to  restore  her  spirit's 
light,  she  died,  and  made  no  sign. 

Allan  Fitz-Henry  lived — a  moody  misanthropic  man,  and 
shunned  of  all.  In  truth,  the  saddest  and  most  wretched  of  the 
sons  of  men. 

How  that  catastrophe  fell  out  none  ever  knew,  and  it  were 
useless  to  conjecture. 

•They  were  beautiful,  they  were  young,  they  were  happy. 
The  evil  days  arrived— and  they  were  wretched,  and  lacked 
strength  to  bear  their  wretchedness.  They  are  gone  where  One 
alone  must  judge  them — may  He  have  pity  on  their  weakness. 
Bequiescant  ! 

THE    END. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JAM    78Sg  «n 

v      IV 

LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


M3G9467 


